Lockdown
by Burning Stars
Summary: "To remind the districts that, in their foolhardy bloodlust, they couldn't anticipate the pain and loss the First Rebellion would bring them, there will be no public reapings. The selected tributes shall be individually taken from their homes and families over the following twenty-four hours." Welcome to the Fourth Quarter Quell.
1. The Announcement

**I do not own the Hunger Games.**

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><p><strong>Library of Panem Legislative Records - Audio File [Transcript]: Mayoral Committee, Motion 254: The Discontinuation of the Hunger Games - November 29th, Year 99<strong>

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><p>In attendance:<p>

District Zero: Thaddeus Hyperion, Vice-President; Hephaestia Dorn, Mayor

District One: Spinel Creighton, Mayor

District Two: Xander Tourney, Mayor

District Three: Lucille Joule, Mayor

District Four: Byron Finlay, Mayor

District Five: Li Rainer, Mayor Elect

District Six: Malachi O'Neil, Mayor

District Seven: Uriah Hackett, Mayor

District Eight: Oriana Taite, Mayor

District Nine: Anders Macaulay, Mayor

District Ten: Michael Yu, Mayor

District Eleven: Layla Forsyth, Mayor

District Twelve: Kimber Ferron, Mayor

District Thirteen: Alma Coin, President; Yvonne Vectus, Mayor

Conversation begins at 1:01PM

Coin [13]: You all know why you're here, I presume. [Pause - indistinct mumbling] In any case, we will reiterate. You have been summoned to vote on Motion 254, which concerns the discontinuation of the Hunger Games. [Pause - indistinct shouting] Yes, we know the Games are a pillar of Panemian society, but times are changing. In fact, the times have already changed, and if we don't change with them, our nation will perish. The purpose of the Games has strayed from the founders' intent. It's become an unnecessary source of resentment - very dangerous, very volatile resentment - among the citizens, especially the poor and working class. For others, it's become a beacon of hope - false hope, but hope nonetheless. As we all know, the Games should inspire neither resentment nor hope. Rather, they should inspire fear, which in turn demands obedience. So, we believe that the funds normally allocated to the Games should instead go to feeding the destitute and strengthening peacekeeper forces. This will debase any unrest before it has the chance to metastasize.

Hyperion [0]: Ever since District Zero was required to start sacrificing tributes, the Games' entertainment value has plummeted. Once their own children are put in the ring, the fun ends. Personally, I think the Games have run their course, both in terms of politics and popular culture. At this point, they hurt more than they help. It would be unwise to continue them.

Dorn [0]: In fact, many citizens of District Zero never liked the Games, even before the Third Quarter Quell. The people who genuinely enjoyed the Games purely as entertainment were often seen as sadistic, or plain stupid. The idea that Capitolites enjoyed the Hunger Games was just propaganda that the old regime tried to push. Unsuccessfully, I might add. The betting, gambling, and sponsorship were the main attractions, at least for mainstream society. Just thought you'd like to know.

Hyperion [0]: Agreed. Now, as for the rest of you: please discuss.

[Pause]

Ferron [12]: Well, I think it's a great idea.

O'Neil [6]: Seconded.

Rainer [5]: Third..ed?

Tourney [2]: Hold the damn phone. Do you have any idea what sort of economic benefits the Games afford us? The influx of money and food from each victory is immeasurably helpful to my people.

Ferron [12]: Do _you_ have any idea how much those Games cost? You could just take the money that usually goes to building the arena and paying all of the little worker bees, and instead of using it to kill kids, just split it up amongst the districts according to population. That way, even districts _without_ academies could feed their citizens.

Tourney [2]: Or maybe you should encourage your children to actually win once in a while.

Macaulay [9]: Of course you would say that! Over the last ninety-nine years, you and the other Career districts have only become more and more powerful. The more you win, the richer you get, and the richer you get, the more you fund your academies, and while you're off doing that, we still have nothing. In fact, since our children don't have the head start that yours do, we have less than nothing. Don't you see the inherent unfairness of that system?

Tourney [2]: Life isn't fair.

Ferron [12]: What are you, eight years old? Life can't be summarized into some trite little phrase.

Tourney [2]: And what about the volunteers-in-waiting? They will have wasted their lives and money on a dream that will be snatched from them before they get the chance to fulfill it!

Hyperion [0]: Their tuition will be refunded in full, of course. As for their dreams of victory, there are many available avenues to success, more and more all the time.

Finlay [4]: If I may? [Pause] As a recognized Career district, I've seen firsthand the benefits that victors bring to the district. Food, money, attention, tourists, and the list goes on. But I've also seen, firsthand, the negative side of those victories. PTSD, alcoholism, suicidal episodes, broken families, broken minds. Not to mention the horrors endured by those who lose. I am very well-acquainted with the consequences of failure, and I wouldn't wish that pain on my worst enemy.

Tourney [2]: But can you say, with absolute certainty, that purging the bad is worth losing the good?

Finlay [4]: I lost my daughter to those wretched Games! How dare you tell me what's worth losing and what isn't?!

[Pause]

O'Neil [6]: We've all lost people to the Game, or at the very least seen the effect on the families and friends of the fallen tributes. As appointed leaders, we have been entrusted with the safety and well-being of our people. I cannot, in good conscience, deny the opportunity to bring this suffering to an end.

Ferron [12]: Of course, you are free to establish the Hunger Games in your district, Tourney. Then again, you might not have any residents left by the time next year rolls around.

Hyperion [0]: That's enough.

[Pause]

Hackett [7]: So we just stop the Hunger Games altogether? End it at Ninety-Nine?

Coin [13]: No. The Fourth Quarter Quell will be the last Game. We can't allow the populace to believe that we're doing this to sate them. They must believe that we're only doing this on a whim, as a show of our plentiful and largely unwarranted benevolence.

Joule [3] [aside, presumably to Taite]: Your thoughts?

Taite [8] [aside, presumably to Joule]: I think our children will look back on the century of the Games and wonder what the hell was wrong with us. That's my hope, at least.

Joule [3] [aside, presumably to Taite]: We are in agreement, then.

Tourney [2]: This is outrageous. How can you so easily throw away what is, arguably, Panem's most unifying tradition?

Macaulay [9]: What does it say about us that, as a nation, one of our greatest 'traditions' involves throwing our own children to the wolves?

Creighton [1]: He's right, Tourney. Fortune and glory are well and good, but this is one tradition that I'd gladly cut away. In this case, our culture is holding us back. We can be better. We can move on.

Forsyth [11]: We really can. The future starts now. I want something better for my family, for my district. For Panem.

[Pause]

Coin [13]: Does anyone else have something to say? [Pause] No? Then it's time to vote. Mayors of Panem, on the issue of Motion 254: The Discontinuation of the Hunger Games, what say you?

Dorn, Creighton, Joule, Finlay, Rainer, O'Neil, Hackett, Taite, Macaulay, Yu, Forsyth, Ferron, Vectus: Aye.

Coin [13]: Tourney?

[Pause]

Tourney [2]: I don't suppose you'll execute me for voting against you?

Coin [13]: Of course not. As you know, our power is no longer in question, thus we have moved beyond the need for such barbaric measures. Much like the implementation of the Hunger Games, only an insecure government requires violent and oppressive tactics to enforce their authority. You are free to express your true opinion.

Tourney [2]: Then I vote 'no'.

Hyperion [0]: Your token vote of dissent is duly noted.

Coin [13]: With a vote of 13 to 1, Motion 254 will proceed to the Higher Court, whereupon the Arch Judges shall incorporate it into the Coin-Hyperion agreement. Until then, plans for the Fourth Quarter Quell must be finalized. The meeting to decide the parameters for the last Game is currently set for December 3rd, though that date is subject to change. You will be promptly informed of any changes to the schedule. Thank you for your time. Meeting adjourned.

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><p><strong>Library of Panem Public Records - Audio File Excerpt [Transcript]: President Coin's Fourth Quarter Quell Address - May 12th, Year 100<strong>

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><p>Speech begins at 12:00PM<p>

Coin: Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the One Hundredth Hunger Games. According to the Game charter, a Quarter Quell must be implemented every twenty-five years to remind each new generation of the districts' failed uprisings, and the needless suffering of the Dark Days. However, as Panem continues to reunify, it has become more and more apparent that the Hunger Games are largely needless, as well.

At the time of their implementation, they were justified and their purpose was clearly defined. But in the interim years, they have strayed from the founders' intent. What was meant to inspire fear now inspires young men and women to seek glory in the murder of others. What was meant to serve as a reminder to the thoughtless and unruly now only serves to remind us of our animosity toward one another. The Games have become a burden. An expensive, deadly burden than we can no longer justify. Your mayors have decided that this Game, Panem willing, shall be the last reminder we need.

This year marks the Fourth, and hopefully final, Quarter Quell. [Pause] As written by our ancestors, "To remind the districts that, in their foolhardy bloodlust, they couldn't anticipate the pain and loss the First Rebellion would bring them, there will be no public reapings. The selected tributes shall be individually taken from their homes and families over the following twenty-four hours and brought directly to District Zero. Panem shall not learn the tributes' identities until the Game begins." So spake the Old Capitol.

Good luck, Panem. May the odds be ever in your favor.

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><p><strong>Hello, and welcome to Lockdown. <strong>

**Each tribute will get 2 POVs between now and the start of the game. There will be no reapings, no goodbyes, no chariot rides, and no interviews. Pre-reapings (or pre-abductions, rather), train rides, training days, and the launch chapter will go as planned, though. I just wanted to get rid of the monotonous and generally pointless stuff.**

**If you aren't familiar with my 'verse, I've completed two other SYOTs and created a mentor's blog. The details are on my profile, but here's the run-down: **

**There was an attempt at a Second Rebellion, but it failed early-on. Katniss and Finnick are still alive (because I'm a sap and I like them), though a lot of other victors (listed on my profile) were executed after the Third Quarter Quell. District Thirteen has rejoined Panem, and the Capitol has been reduced to district status and been given the title of "District Zero". Victors are no longer prostituted. Panem as a whole has become a bit more lax and a lot more prosperous in the twenty-five years since the Second Rebellion. There is still a lot of poverty, but absolute destitution isn't nearly so common as it was before. **

**Some important details about my stories that you might want to take into consideration if you're interested in making a tribute:**

** Citizens of Panem are allowed to move between districts. There are fourteen districts in all, Zero through Thirteen. Due to the Quell Twist, there are no volunteers (though people from Career districts can have some training). Districts One, Two, and Four are legal Career districts. District Seven was a Career district, but they lost that privilege. **

***Things that you should definitely take into consideration:**

**The tribute form is on my profile. *DO NOT SUBMIT TRIBUTES THROUGH REVIEW. PLEASE ONLY SUBMIT THEM THROUGH PM.* The deadline is midnight, January 17th, PST, and I won't officially accept any tributes until then. I'll push back the deadline if I don't receive enough tributes within that time frame. This is not first come, first serve, and though you may send as many tributes as your heart desires, I will only accept one per person. And lastly, ****"misunderstood" is not a valid weakness.  
><strong>

**So, if you're interested, please submit a tribute or two, and maybe drop a review on this prologue if you feel so inclined.  
><strong>

**Anyways, thanks for reading, and I'll see you sometime in the next few weeks!**


	2. Prior

**I do not own the Hunger Games.**

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><p><strong>Aphelion Andros, District Zero - Head Gamemaker<strong>

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><p>"How are the cells looking?"<p>

Leopold pointed to the screen overhead. "Ninety-three percent have been completed."

"Good." Aphelion checked her tablet. "Mutts?"

A young man, fairly new to the job but confident nonetheless, piped up from the control panel. "Batches one through ten have been primed and are on standby. Batches eleven through fourteen are awaiting their completion codes, but are otherwise fully gestated."

Aphelion paused and drew a sharp breath. Since they existed solely for this arena, it was pointless to keep the last batches of muttations waiting. "Update the completion codes."

"Yes, ma'am."

Strained whispers rose from a cluster of women near the back of the room. Magenta nails hid sneering mouths, and three pairs of heavily decorated eyes fixed on her.

"Ladies," she said, stopping in front of them. "Do you have something to contribute?"

Two of the women looked away, and their hands dropped. But the third, an outspoken troublemaker who rarely knew when to keep her mouth shut, held her head up and glared at Aphelion with snobbish, petty disdain. "You and the president have taken the fun out of the Games."

"Oh? Please, enlighten me."

Even as her companions urged her to quiet down, the impudent woman continued. "The reapings? The Chariot Rides? The interviews? You can't just get rid of all that."

Aphelion offered the woman a contrived smile. "Need I remind you that I am not in charge of the Quarter Quell twist?" She stepped closer, and dropped the mocking façade. "Death is no pastime. You, in you supreme lack of empathy, fail to realize that, for these tributes, it is the end. That warrants respect." She brought up an electronic diagram of the arena and drummed her nails on the crystalline display surface. "This Game, if executed properly, will be the last. It is our responsibility to demonstrate the consequences of rebellion, but even more importantly, to emphasize the value of human life, something our predecessors didn't seem to understand." Lifting her gaze to meet that of the dissenter, she added, "Gilding a death match and labeling it fanfare will not accomplish either of those goals."

Her assistants averted their eyes, embarrassed. In time, they would learn.

Aphelion had no love for her job. Detested it, even. But it gave her the opportunity to improve the nation that she so dearly loved. In order to stop the atrocity once and for all, she had to end it properly. She did not want the weight of twenty-seven deaths and innumerable ruined lives resting upon her shoulders, but if she managed to leave the correct lasting impression, she could save countless others. She could bring the suffering to a halt. That's what made it worthwhile.

Even if she had to sacrifice her soul.

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><p><strong>Oren Bradshaw, District Thirteen - Victor of the Ninety-Ninth Hunger Games<strong>

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><p>Oren Bradshaw did not like his father. In fact, it took a great measure of effort to even tolerate the man. But he did love him. Between them, things were as they had been before his victory. They had barely spoken then, and they barely spoke now, but Oren preferred it that way. His father had accepted what his son had done and moved on, just like Azura. Everyone else had taken significantly longer, or, in a few cases, not forgiven him at all. But he understood, even if he didn't like it.<p>

He'd killed his district partner out of necessity. Most people saw that. They had been the only two left, and he'd wanted to go home more than she did. Whether or not he still felt that way varied from day to day. For the most part, he was just okay.

"You leaving for Zero today?" his father asked, eyes fixed on the faint sunrise.

"When the second tribute is taken, yeah."

"Last game?"

With some unintentional warmth, Oren answered, "Last game."

This was the last time anyone would be dragged into the hell that he and the other victors endured. It was awful, and it was finally coming to an end. The bitter part of him resented the fact that, if his bad luck had simply waited two years, he wouldn't be a murderer. But it hadn't. He knew that he was fortunate to be alive, though whether or not that made up for getting reaped, he didn't know.

His father nodded, picking up on Oren's relief. "Don't fuck up."

"Wasn't planning on it."

"Most fuck-ups are unplanned."

Adrian Bradshaw was not only an unsmiling bastard, but a merciless contrarian, as well. Oren suspected that his father took secret pride in this, though it was nearly impossible to verify that claim.

With an exaggerated sigh, Oren sat up and yawned. As the tendons in his neck went taut, a spasm of pain jolted his mouth shut, and his hand went to the smiling scar that ran across his throat. The injury hadn't healed properly, and it still bothered him from time to time. The Career's attempted death blow missed the important stuff, though, so Oren supposed he was grateful for that questionable bit of luck, too.

"You gonna see your mum before you go?" his father asked.

"Yeah."

"Say 'hi' for me."

Oren bobbed his head. "Will do." Taking the porch stairs two by two, he added, "See you when I get back."

By now, a few of the tributes across Panem had probably already been taken. He and Azura couldn't leave until both the male and the female had been collected from their district, and as of yet he'd received no summons to the train, so he figured that at least one of their future tributes was still out and about.

Oren pitied them.

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><p><strong>Venera Toulley, District Two - Victor of the Eighty-First Hunger Games<strong>

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><p>The ocean was a strange shade of gray. A storm had arrived the night before, bringing with it a sizable swell that stirred up all manner of particulates from the seafloor, clouding the water and sending huge waves crashing against the rocky shoreline. After raging all night, the weather was finally starting to subside.<p>

"This isn't up for debate."

"Really? Because I'm debating. Watch me." Darius leaned forward opened his mouth to demonstrate, but Venera planted her hand on his face and pushed him back.

"You're wasting your breath," she said. "I shan't be convinced."

He rolled his eyes and pried her hand away, setting it gently on the table with a gentle, if not slightly facetious pat. "Reality will not change solely for you, _honey._ And the reality is that one of us needs to stay behind."

"Natalie is fifteen, and very capable of taking care of both Kai and herself. I think they can manage for a few days."

"Too many things can go wrong. If it was just Natalie, then maybe I'd consider it. But Kai? Even you wouldn't want to be stuck alone with him."

Venera narrowed her eyes, irritated by the corner he'd backed her into. Their daughter was a fine, capable young woman. Their nine-year-old son, on the other hand, wasn't necessarily an idiot, but he seemed to lack a few of the finer points of common sense and decency that graced the rest of humanity. Add in some anti-authoritarian tendencies and a knack for trouble, and the house very well could be gone when they came home.

Of course, the safety of their house paled in comparison to the possibility of their daughter being taken, but they couldn't do much about that. Fretting over it was pointless.

With an empty sigh, Venera rested her hand on her fist. "I just want one more chance."

It was an attempt to look pathetic, though she only had to exaggerate a bit. If one of them had to stay, she wanted it to be him.

Her only successful mentorship thus far had produced one very troubled, low-functioning sociopath. In all honesty, she would have rather seen his district partner win, but the poor girl died in the bloodbath, leaving Venera with the boy who killed defenseless animals to alleviate boredom. Rumor had it that the kid murdered his own brother, but neither she nor any of the other mentors had been able to get solid confirmation. All evidence pointed to an accident, but she wouldn't be surprised if Vitus did it. He was the kind of person who smiled when he killed.

"I get it, Nera." Darius laced his fingers together, mostly serious. "Vitus wasn't my top pick either, but you still brought someone home. That has to count for something."

"Easy for you to say. Reid is a sweetheart."

Darius paused, then conceded a small nod. "This is true."

After nineteen mentorships, Darius had kept one tribute alive, and the girl was absolutely wonderful. A bit strange, but wonderful nonetheless. In fact, she was so kind and gentle that some of the other Careers in her game decided that she would be an easy target. They were wrong, and all three paid the ultimate price for their miscalculation. Reid felt bad about it, sure, but just because she was gentle didn't mean she was soft.

"Tell you what," Darius said, eyes lighting up. "I'll ask my sister if she can watch the kids. And if she can't, I'll stay."

Venera considered this. The childless spinster did love her niece and nephew, and would make accommodations for them if at all possible. She was reliable, too, and one of the few people that Kai actually listened to. If anyone could keep their children in line for an extended period of time, it was Darius's sister.

"Deal," Venera said. "I'd rather we went together, anyways."

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><p><strong>Marguerite DuPont, District Zero - Victor of the Eighty-Eighth Hunger Games<strong>

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><p>White walls, white noise, white hair, white sheets. Everything lovely, everything clean, with a woman in bed and death in the eaves.<p>

Marguerite hated this room.

She sat on the edge of the cot, holding her grandmother's blue-veined hand. There was a bandage wrapped around her wrist, meant to hide the spot where her skin, paper-thin with age, had split open against the edge of a table. That injury was almost two months old now, and it had yet to heal. Given her grandmother's failing health, it probably wouldn't get the chance.

"Gran," she murmured, leaning over the fading woman and pushing a strand of hair away from her waxy, pallid cheek. "Gran, I have to go."

Some days, though they were growing fewer and further between, her grandmother was lucid enough to hold a conversation, though they rarely lasted more than a minute before she forgot why she was talking in the first place, or worse yet, forgot who Marguerite was. As bad as that was, it hurt less than seeing her not speak at all. Unfortunately, today was a no-speak day.

"I'll be back in two or three weeks," she said, though she didn't know if her grandmother had that long. She was slipping more and more everyday, and one day there wouldn't be anything left to lose. Even now, not much remained.

Her grandmother, once strong and passionate and beautiful, had faded to a wisp of bland, semiconscious thought. She remembered nothing in the long-term. She had no opinions. She was a bundle of bones and flesh with a few fleeting thoughts, clutching to a dying light that, someday very soon, would fizzle and die, dragging the hapless woman with it. What was left of her, at least.

Marguerite's parents had never had much of a presence in her life. Alcohol, morphling, and an infallible ability to hook up with the most abusive man in any given locality removed her mother from the frame early on, and her father wasn't much in the way of affection. He provided for her, and he did his best with what he had. But her grandmother was the one who loved her in the way every child should be loved. Without her grandmother's shining example, without the years of imparted wisdom, twelve years ago Marguerite would have arrived home in a simple pine box.

Now, the woman who raised her, the woman who gave her the strength to survive, was in a state of utter helplessness, and perhaps on the verge of death. Maybe she wouldn't go today, maybe not tomorrow, but a lot could happen during the Game.

Perhaps the old woman would die, and perhaps Marguerite, drafted as a mentor for what she hoped was the last time, wouldn't get the chance to say a final goodbye.

The Game had already taken so much from her. She didn't think she could bear another theft.

"I love you," she said, and planted a kiss on the woman's forehead. No response. "Stay here until I come back." Her voice cracked on the last syllable. "Please, Gran. I won't be long."

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><p><strong>I figured I'd give a little insight into the mentors' lives, as well as a bit of exposition on the Head Gamemaker. <strong>

**As for submissions, I've gotten a number of great tributes so far, and though I won't tell you where to submit, I'd advise staying away from D0. All of the other districts are pretty much fair game.**


	3. Drumroll, Please

**I do not own the Hunger Games.  
><strong>

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><p><strong>Thermo Austale, Victor of the 66<strong>**th**** Hunger Games**

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><p>Through his kitchen window, Thermo watched with a humorless smile as Flouric Weber paced up and down the street. District Three's most recent victor liked a great many things, but watching children die was not one of them. Worse yet, his sister was due in the next few days, and instead of being there to greet the new child, the man would be in District Zero, trying to keep someone else's child alive. The Games had a remarkable tendency to disrupt family life.<p>

Thermo had a family once. Well, just a mother, but she was enough. Everything a mother was supposed to be: kind, loving, hardworking, empathetic. She sacrificed her time, her energy, her everything to ensure that he could stay in school and have a better life than she ever did. He spent the majority of his childhood just trying to be a son worthy of such a woman.

When he won his Game, he thought he could finally provide for her in the way she'd always provided for him. At last, he could be the man of the house, a better version of the one who walked out only a few months after his birth. If his mother couldn't have a proper husband, at the very least, he could be a proper son.

But he'd killed people. The arena had been a nightmare, and it rubbed off on him. Turned him into something he didn't want to be.

His mother had watched him fight. She'd watched him crumble. She'd watched him change.

And they both knew that he could never be a proper son. Anything and everything he offered, no matter how lovely or useful or prudent, always reeked of blood, desperation, and the children he'd killed.

She'd gone to her grave knowing that her son was a murderer.

Thermo opened his front door, and called to Flouric. "You're going to wear a track in the road."

Flouric responded with an unkind gesture, and Thermo tried to smile.

He missed his mother dearly.

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><p><strong>Aphelion Andros, Head Gamemaker<strong>

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><p>Her assistant stared at the diagram, resting his chin on his fist. "I think everything's taken care of." He looked to Aphelion. "Did we miss anything?"<p>

Aphelion shook her head. "Nearly all is in place."

He pointed at a flashing corner of the hologram. "What about solitary confinement?"

"It's being stocked." She referred to her tablet, and raised her eyebrows with a sigh. "Should be ready in two hours."

The poor kid was gnawing on a hangnail, more nervous than Aphelion had ever seen him, and she couldn't help but wonder why. It wasn't as if _his_ reputation was on the line.

"What's on your mind?" she asked.

The young man looked up, startled, and his hand flashed to his side. "I, uh. Nothing, ma'am." After a moment's consideration, he relented. "Actually, it's… it's my sister. She lives in District One and we've never had to worry about her, but she's seventeen, and with the quell twist, this time…" He sighed. "I just don't want my sister to get killed by something I helped create."

Aphelion pursed her lips. "But if your creation kills the sister of a stranger, it's okay?"

"What? N-no, not at all, I just-"

"It's a tragedy regardless of relation. We're guilty all the same." A little wistfully, she added, "No matter how hard we try, we can't escape our base nature. But we can fight it. We _should_ fight it." She smiled at the screen. "This prison of war."

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><p><strong>District Zero<strong>

Male: Enoch Emeris, 18

Female: Charne Valle, 18

**District One**

Male: Florian Casimir, 17

Female: Danique Vittori, 17

**District Two**

Male: Tullus Marl, 18

Female: Medea Torrell, 15

**District Three**

Male: Emery Sobel, 14

Female: Polly Brady, 18

**District Four**

Male: Owen Blackwood, 17

Female: Dabria Lane, 18

**District Five**

Male: Damian Ridge, 18

Female: Maelyn LeBrenton, 16

**District Six**

Male: Tristan Vorassi, 18

Female: Ryder Corinthus, 17

**District Seven**

Male: Darian Kesslar, 16

Female: Magery Kappel, 18

**District Eight**

Male: Denim Luxley, 17

Female: Evelyn Arellis, 15

**District Nine**

Male: Samson Galloway, 16

Female: Nynette Saghas, 14

**District Ten**

Male: Benjamin Stavros, 18

Female: Aviana Recine, 16

**District Eleven**

Male: Armand Castillo, 12

Female: Sinora Midori, 16

**District Twelve**

Male: Ace Wilder, 15

Female: Adara Tassin, 18

**District Thirteen**

Male: Niko Sundita, 16

Female: Brand Coil, 17

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><p><strong>Some more background, yay. And now you know that the arena is one big metaphor for the human condition. It's almost like we're back in English class!<strong>

**Oooookay. I received almost sixty submissions, so I had to reject about thirty tributes. I appreciate the effort that went into each submission, and if any of yours aren't on the list, I'm sorry. Some details might be different than you expected, so check every district. I had to put a few tributes into different districts than the ones listed on their form, and the overwhelming majority were older kids, so I had to push down a lot of tributes by one (or in one case, two) year(s). But rest assured that this won't affect their performance in the game. I just wanted to make the spread of ages slightly more realistic.**

**Let me know what you think of the tributes! I love full blog reviews, but I understand that's fairly time-consuming, so I'd alternately appreciate a mention of your favorites/least favorites, or even just the ones who stood out.**

**Anywho, the blog is posted, and it's 3:15 in the morning right now, so I should probably wrap it up. Thanks for reading, thanks for submitting tributes, and I hope to see you next time.**


	4. Abductions

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

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><p><strong>Denim Luxley, District Eight Male<strong>

* * *

><p>When observed over any extended period of time, Denim Luxley appeared to be sliding down the razor blade of life with all the vigor of week-old road kill. And in truth, he was, though he hardly cared enough to notice, and he certainly didn't care enough to do anything about it.<p>

The world, as a whole, either pissed him off or bored him out of his mind. In fact, his three known interests were based purely upon what few things he could tolerate: his family, making trouble, and music.

On the afternoon of the Quarter Quell announcement, Denim found himself gazing listlessly up at his ceiling whilst treating his neighbors to some duet by two washed-up rock stars, though at the time of the recording they were both still firmly in their prime. He'd received a number of noise complaints over the years from the boring old people who lived on the floors above and below, but he'd ignored them, and eventually they gave up. Peacekeepers didn't have much time for teenagers who didn't steal, murder, maim, or incite rebellion.

Of course, that wasn't to say that Denim never got in trouble. He didn't intended to break the law, but he'd ignored some peacekeeper orders that he probably should have obeyed and got into a fight with one a few years ago. They'd had it out for him ever since, and he did his best to avoid them.

He rolled over onto his side. Maybe they didn't have it out for him specifically, but it certainly felt like it from time to time.

Across the apartment, he heard the front door slam open, and amidst the shouts of men and women, he heard his younger sister cry out in panic. He sat bolt upright. Whoever it was, they'd better not hurt her.

One of the strangers screamed his name, demanding to know where he was, but in response his sister simply screamed, "Run, Denim!"

Tromping boots hurried through the main entryway and down the hallway.

He rested his back against the wall, debating the likelihood of escape. No matter where he went in Panem, they'd eventually find him. Maybe he could hide out for so long that they had to find another tribute to take his place?

Even as the thought formed, he knew it was just a false hope. If he did somehow manage to miraculously evade them, he'd probably have a firing squad waiting for him once they rediscovered him. Denim Luxley, a lone teenage boy, versus the nation of Panem? Didn't look too good for him.

Still, no point in just giving in.

Before the peacekeepers reached his door, he had flung the window open, leapt across the narrow alleyway, and landed on the adjacent balcony. He swung around to the metal ladder and slid down, hissing as the friction built up and seared his hands. He hit the ground hard and took off down the dark alleyway, sifting his brain for a potential escape route, trying to piece every relevant bit of information he remembered into an actual plan. The street ahead let out at a local park, and just beyond the park was a run-down textile mill that hadn't been active since before he was born. The doors were locked, but one of the windows was completely blown-out. It was a long-shot, but better than nothing.

As he took off toward the main street, the concrete at his feet erupted in tiny bursts of superheated dust, and bullets ricocheted off of the brick walls. They were shooting at him! Apparently he wasn't so important if they were willing to potentially kill him.

From the window above, a peacekeeper shouted, "Citizen! Remain where you are!"

Like that was gonna happen.

He turned the corner and sped down the street, arms pumping and legs burning. He hadn't run this hard in a while.

A black van came hurtling through the intersection a few hundred feet ahead, clipping a produce stand and sending bits of fruit skittering across the street. Denim tried to course-correct, but they anticipated it. The back doors flew open, and four more peacekeepers hopped out of the vehicle, two for each end of the van, and all of them pointed their guns at his head and chest.

He slowed to a trot, then came to a halt and leaned his hands on his knees, panting.

"Denim Luxley," the tallest one said, "you have been reaped. Do not resist."

Denim straightened with a sigh. At least he'd tried.

* * *

><p><strong>Damian Ridge, District Five<strong>

* * *

><p>Damian knocked on the door again. "Mom?" No response. "Mom, we need to talk."<p>

A long pause followed, but still she said nothing.

He rested his head against the door and closed his eyes, wishing that she would make even the smallest effort to understand. "I'm not going to change my mind just because you won't talk to me."

A string of curses erupted from inside the room, followed by tromping footsteps, her voice growing louder, and he jerked backward as the door flew open. Before him stood a tiny woman in her late forties, face streaked with mascara and nails bitten down to the quick. Judging by the color of her face, he could've probably cooked an egg on her forehead if he were so inclined.

For a moment, he briefly reconsidered his situation. Perhaps he should stay. Both parents expected him to take control of the family business, that sprawling and nebulous beast that had financed their big, expensive house and their nice, shiny things, though it had also driven his father to an early grave less than one month prior. Stress-induced heart-attack, the doctors said. Too much work, not enough play. Wrapped up in the cutthroat hustle and bustle of District Five, the Ridge family knew all too well that money, for all its varied uses, could not buy happiness. Or, even more importantly: contentment.

The pursuit of more power, more money, more everything - it had killed his father. Warped his mother. It wasn't the kind of life Damian wanted, wasn't the kind of person he was. He wanted quiet. He wanted peace. He wanted the right to use his life as he saw fit, and whether he met success or fell into the deadbeat rhythm of mediocrity was his own business.

"How dare you!" his mother shrieked. "Your father's dying wish, just to see his legacy continued! And you, you, you-" She paused, choking on the words before she could sort them out. "You ingrate!"

"It's not my responsibility to continue a dead man's work," Damian said, knowing how awful the words were before they left his mouth. "I'm not the person dad was. Living his life will just make me miserable."

"You think he wasn't miserable? You think he didn't sacrifice for us? For you? Look around you, Damian! You think the world just gave us these things? No! We had to fight for every inch of what we have!"

"And yet you want more. You and dad. Nothing was ever enough."

"That isn't the point!"

"No," Damian cut in, "that's exactly the point." He drew a sullen sigh. He had forgotten himself. "I didn't come here to yell at you. I just… I don't want it to be like this. I don't want to leave things this way."

His mother's lower lip quivered, but she showed no sign of yielding. "Then maybe you should stay."

She slammed the door, leaving Damian alone in the hallway. Anger flared up, but he forced it down. No use in letting his emotions get the better of him.

He left her alone and walked to his own room, where a neatly packed suitcase sat on the edge of his bed. He thought of all the places he could go. District Ten seemed like the best bet since it was more rural than suburban, and from what he heard, the people were nice. They'd done well in the past few decades, so not much poverty, either. Of course, Four had always held a certain appeal, too, what with the ocean and all. He could live on the beach, or somewhere near it. Both of those options appealed to him far more than running an empire.

Of course, he'd have to wait until tomorrow to leave once and for all. Travel between districts had been restricted for everyone between the ages of twelve and eighteen, at least until the reapings were over. Apparently they didn't fancy hunting kids all across Panem and back.

There was a knock on the door, interrupting Damian's reverie, and he perked up. Maybe his mother had changed her mind? He dismissed that idea almost as quickly as it arrived. She was probably just going to yell at him some more.

He opened the door, expecting his mother and preparing for another tongue-lashing. What he found was much worse.

A woman in black, flanked on both sides by two peacekeepers, smiled at him with measured passivity. "Damian Ridge, you have been reaped for the One Hundredth Annual Hunger Games. Please come with us. Resistance will be met with force."

"Fine," he said, surprised by the control in his voice. The woman nodded, and he reluctantly followed.

So much for self-determination.

* * *

><p><strong>Brand Coil, District Thirteen<strong>

* * *

><p>The desk lamp flickered every now and again, though it posed nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Brand certainly wasn't going to spend money on a new one.<p>

If she had any money, of course. Which she didn't. But even if she did, she wouldn't waste it like that.

The last few bits of metal weren't fitting together all that well, but she'd make it work. She always had. It was her specialty: fixing all the little things that meant nothing in the long run, while fucking up anything that actually mattered.

Not many kids in Thirteen dropped out of school by age fifteen, mostly because they were content with living the life their parents had, so long as they had job security and what meager happiness they could scrape from the bones of routine. But fifteen-year-old Brand had other plans. She'd make a difference. She'd be better than the rest of them. She'd be free of District Thirteen's shackles, and she'd make a name for herself as an inventor, or maybe something else equally respectable.

Brand had wanted to be so many things, but she hadn't wanted to do the work. She didn't want to listen to the teachers, or her parents, because in her dark little heart of hearts, she thought she was better than them. Brand Coil, inventor extraordinaire. She didn't need any instructors because she knew everything already.

But natural talent only went so far.

Which was why eighteen-year-old Brand found herself stuck in an entry-level monitoring job at Reactor 12, and would likely stay in that position for the rest of her life. Unless she ran off to another district, which was entirely possible. She'd thought about it a lot.

Running away wouldn't solve anything, though. The scenery would be different, but her problems would remain the same because she _was_ the problem. It was something she'd only admit to herself. She was the one who dropped out of high school. She was the one who started drinking too young - though she'd managed to kick that habit a while ago. Not without doing irreparable damage to her relationship with her parents, though.

There were so many things she wanted to change, but she had no idea where to start.

So instead, she fixed up little devices and sometimes made a few of her own. Machines were easy. Unlike people, there was no gray area, and the problems were very easily addressed.

Except with this little piece of shit.

She wrestled with the screwdriver, trying to force the coiled wire and metal casing into place, but eventually she gave up with an exasperated sigh. No use. She'd made the shell just a bit too small to hold the machine's guts.

Strange. This was the first time in a long while that she'd made such a stupid mistake on a project. Perhaps it was due to stress, what with the reapings and all. Or maybe it was just the usual anxiety that came with being a general failure.

She picked up the little contraption, no bigger than her fist. It belonged in the basement, where nearly all of her creations went regardless of whether they worked or not. She'd actually managed to sell a few, but when it came to vending her wares, or interacting with people in general, she didn't have the best luck.

As she set foot on the first basement step, a knock sounded from the front door. She turned, eyebrows knit with concern. Her parents wouldn't be home from work for at least another few hours, and they usually had house keys anyways, which meant that it either had to be Dexter or a stranger. Neither prospect seemed very appealing, so she ignored it.

There was another knock, this time more urgent. They were persistent, whoever they were.

Brand didn't get the chance to ignore them again. Something smashed against the door from the other side, and the wooden barrier whipped open, revealing a small crowd of dark, masked figures standing on the front stoop. Distantly, Brand remembered that the Fourth Quarter Quell had been announced only hours before, and the President had mentioned something along the lines of "strange people come to take you away".

One of the peacekeepers surged forward, gun held level with her chest. "Brand Coil, you have been chosen-"

She screamed and chucked the machine at the guy's head before scrambling toward the back door. It struck the front of his visor, leaving a tiny white chip in the otherwise uniform iridescence, but the man barely seemed to notice. He was in front of her before she'd even cleared the living room.

"Ma'am, either you comply, or we make you comply."

More peacekeepers circled around her, and she knew there was no way to permanently escape tributehood unless she was prepared to die within the next few seconds. She was not.

Slowly, she held up her shaking hands. "Okay."

They fell upon her like wolves.

* * *

><p><strong>Charne Valle, District Zero<strong>

* * *

><p>Soft twilight clung to the western horizon, leeching light from the sky, and a warm breeze blew through the meticulously manicured garden.<p>

Charne sat in the gazebo at the edge of the lawn, picking at her toes with a faint, resentful frown. The nitwit pedicurist she'd seen earlier that week hadn't known the difference between raspberry and mauve, and her nail polish definitely showed it. Charne was a winter, not a summer, and she'd have to get the color fixed before she met up with her friends tomorrow.

"No, Isca," she said, rolling her eyes at the girl on the other end of the phone. "Charles hooked up with Lucinda, but Juno was okay with that because she was already cheating on him with Ophelia and Xavier."

"At the same time?"

"Yeah. Juno thinks they have an open relationship, but from what I heard, Charles isn't so keen on the idea. He's just a pig and wants to hook up with everyone, while having Juno remain faithful to him." Charne breathed a self-important sigh. "If I were her, I'd break up with the hypocrite."

Isca scoffed. "Charles has always been like that. It's not like Juno didn't have any prior warning."

"True." She sat up on the plush cushions, remembering what she'd learned that morning. "Isca, I have something to tell you, but you have to promise not to tell anyone else, okay?"

"Okay…"

Charne held her breath for a few moments, giving the information a sufficiently dramatic introduction. "You know about Yvonne Orwell? The valedictorian from last year?"

"Yeah," Isca answered. She sounded dubious.

"And you know about Jordan Velasquez, right? That one really hot senior on the water polo team?"

"I know _of_ him, sure. What about them?"

"Apparently, Jordan got Yvonne pregnant, and they both want to keep it, so her parents kicked her out! From what I heard, they're both going to District Ten to live with Jordan's uncle."

Isca gasped, and in the ensuing silence, Charne smiled to herself. She knew that Isca couldn't keep a secret for even ten seconds, but pretending that a bit of gossip was supposed to be kept under wraps automatically made it more valuable. Knowing all the dirt before anyone else made Charne important, and it was fun to talk about all the skeletons in everyone's closets, even if she had to embellish a bit here and there. Without it, life wouldn't be nearly so amusing.

"How did you find out about this?"

Charne shrugged, even though she knew Isca couldn't see her. "A friend of Jordan's brother. They're leaving in five days."

"Wow." She could sense Isca searching for words. "I mean, good for them, I guess? At least they have somewhere to go."

Charne almost answered, but a light went on in one of the upstairs rooms of her house, and a figure passed in front of the curtains. She sighed to herself. "Ugh. Isca, I think I have to go. My mom just woke up from her nap, and she doesn't like waking up to an empty house. Talk to you later."

She hung up, pocketed the phone, and hopped to her feet. Electric lanterns lined the path that wound through the garden, casting a soft, creamy light across the smooth paving stones and surrounding plants. A breeze played with the hem of her dress, rippling the white fabric, and she brushed her hair behind her ear. The day had been unusually placid. No school, since reaping day was always considered a national student holiday. But even then, the overwhelming silence was a bit unnerving.

Even the birds were quiet today. Charne spent a lot of time in her backyard, and the birds were only quiet was at night, during especially inclement weather, or when someone else was nearby.

The thought had barely crossed her mind when a chill ran up her spine. Had there been a sound?

She whipped around, eyes darting through the trees, searching for any unusual figures that didn't belong. But she saw nothing. Seconds ticked past, and she continued to see nothing.

With a strained sigh of relief, she turned back to the house.

The faceless, black-clad figure clamped a hand over her mouth before she had time to scream. An iridescent obsidian visor obscured the strangers' features, and she only saw her own terrified reflection, wide-eyed and ghostly pale in the semi-darkness of twilight.

* * *

><p><strong>Evelyn Arellis, District Eight<strong>

* * *

><p>Terryn stared down at her hands, face grim and pale under the harsh kitchen lights. "I'm scared."<p>

From across the table, Evelyn didn't look up from her meager dinner. "As you should be."

"People will die, Evelyn. In the worst ways imaginable. Doesn't that..." Terryn's face folded into an uncomprehending frown. "Don't you feel anything?"

"People have been dying since forever, Terryn. And the Hunger Games aren't exactly new. If anything, you should be happy, since this is the last one." She reached over and gave her young roommate a patronizing pat on the head. "Lighten up."

The inherent hypocrisy of that statement wasn't lost on Evelyn, and it brought a derisive grin to her lips. She may have had all the levity of a dead cat, but she wasn't about to give the government power over her personal feelings. Shitty or not, it was her life. She'd be happy just to spite them.

A dog barked from a few houses down, and Evelyn pulled the curtains back from the window to catch a glimpse of what the irritating creature had noticed. She watched a shiny black car drive down the street, sliding under the yellow streetlamps like a liquid shadow. It came to a stop at the opposite curb. The windows were tinted to hide anyone inside, and Evelyn frowned. She waited for a few moments, but nothing happened. No one moved inside the car.

Anxiety prickled in her gut, but she let the curtain fall. It was probably one of the neighbors being stupid. There was a lot of that going around in her neighborhood.

A few minutes later, as she was just starting to forget about the car, someone knocked on the front door, and her blood ran cold. Statistically speaking, since Terryn was only twelve, they were probably here for Evelyn.

Terryn gave her a wide-eyed, pleading stare.

"I'll get it," Evelyn said, voice suddenly hoarse. She cursed her own weakness.

Forcing her hands to remain steady, she unmatched the lock, and let the door creak open. Two peacekeepers stood in the hallway, dressed in military body armor, and Evelyn couldn't help but notice the subtle totalitarian flair in the cut of their outfits. These weren't just normal peacekeepers. They meant serious business. She decided that their opaque faceplates really completed the look.

The one on the left inclined her head. "Evelyn Arellis, you have been chosen to represent District Eight in the One Hundredth Annual Hunger Games. Please come peacefully. We are authorized to meet resistance with any force necessary."

Evelyn sighed.

Hysteria was starting to build in her core, but it was far enough down to hide underneath her well-practiced shell of sardonic non-emotion. She would keep it together. She always did.

But as the peacekeepers came closer, in light of the situation, her brittle, crystalline fear shone with a facet of utter exasperation. Everything she'd worked for, all of the little pieces that she'd scrounged up and tried so hard to protect, none of it mattered. They'd called her paranoid for being afraid, and yet here was her proof, breaking into the dingy apartment she had turned into a home and ripping her from one of the few people she could call an acquaintance, let alone a friend.

She'd fought for everything good in her life, and she'd always known that she was never more than a step away from the maw. Now, she was close enough to count the teeth, and a tiny part of her smiled with grim satisfaction. She'd expected it, and with the peacekeepers' arrival, she'd been vindicated.

In the long run, though, she'd rather have happiness - or the closest thing she could get - than petty vindication.

* * *

><p><strong>Margery Kappel, District Seven<strong>

* * *

><p>The house was quiet. At least, it was supposed to be quiet.<p>

Margery shuffled out of her room and down the hallway, running a hand through her hair and blinking to clear the bleariness from her eyes. She glanced at the small clock hanging on the wall, hands and numbers illuminated by the yellow streetlamp outside the window. It was much too early for someone to be making a ruckus.

Maybe it was just Noelle wandering about, creating as much noise as humanly possible while getting a glass of water. The girl was too young to always take other people into consideration. Sometimes she forgot, and accidentally waking everyone up at four in the morning wasn't totally unheard of.

Margery had nearly rounded the corner to the kitchen when a hand darted out from a doorway and pulled her inside. Another hand, cold and dry, clamped over her mouth, stifling her cry of panic.

"Be quiet. They might hear you."

It was just the twins. Darya gaped at her, lips trembling, and Jonas hung back in the shadows, eyes wide and strangely bright in the darkness. He'd been the one who pulled her inside the room.

"Who might hear us?" Margery asked, keeping her volume low to play along, though her fear was quickly turning into irritation. Jonas oftentimes pulled stupid pranks like this, and sometimes managed to rope Darya and others into it, too. They were supposed to be in bed, not prowling around the house and scaring the pants off of their older sister.

"The peacekeepers," Jonas whispered, voice oddly calm. "They're here to take one of us, I bet."

The blood drained from Margery's face. "What?"

A floorboard in the hallway squeaked, and Darya screamed at the top of her lungs. The lights went on, and Margery staggered back, her night vision overwhelmed by the sudden brightness.

"Margery Kappel," said one of the peacekeepers, "we request that you come with us. Resistance is ill-advised."

The doors along the hallway all slammed open, and she heard her parents and her siblings screaming at the peacekeepers, demanding to know what was going on. Darya's scream had awoken them, and now everyone, including Margery, was panicking.

"Citizens," said one of the peacekeepers, "we request that you remain where you are. We are here for Margery Kappel, and her alone."

Her eldest brother, still one year younger than herself, rushed forward without thinking. "Like hell you are!"

The peacekeeper simply sidestepped. His baton cracked against Roan's shoulder, and her brother screamed. Her father tried to intervene, perhaps to protect Roan or maybe pull the boy to his senses, but another baton flew from the mass of black-clad figures and struck the back of her fathers' knees. He fell, teeth bared and eyes watering.

Her mother, sisters, and two youngest brothers stood at the end of the hallway, the younger ones crying, the older ones in shock, and her mother looking as if she were about to collapse.

"Stop!" Margery cried, putting herself between the men and her brother. "I'll go! Just leave them alone!"

The batons froze. All eyes turned to her, sympathetic and unfeeling alike. A painful beat of silence sunk into the cracks of the room and froze there.

Her father pulled Roan to his feet, and her brother looked at her with a mix of pain, resignation, and disappointment. A little hurt, too.

_I stick my neck out for you, and you just give up?_

But he understood. There was no way her family could win against multiple well-trained peacekeepers. And even if they did, there would be more. There would always be more, and they would keep coming until they got what they wanted. And they wanted Margery.

She couldn't put her family in that sort of danger, especially since anything they did would just delay the inevitable or, worse yet, get someone killed.

As the peacekeepers swarmed around her, she offered Roan a regretful smile. She'd rather have him angry than have him dead.

A curtain of black fabric fell over her eyes, and she lost sight of her family, her home. Her everything.

They dragged her through the house, and she struggled to stay upright as her feet scuffed across the old carpet and hardwood flooring. They thrust her through the front door and into the muggy, early summer night. The chorus of crickets was nearly deafening, and somewhere nearby, a car engine sputtered to life.

Tears streaked down her face. In less than five minutes, they'd stripped her of everything.

She hadn't even had the chance to say goodbye.

* * *

><p><strong>Owen Blackwood, District Four<strong>

* * *

><p>The television blared in the living room, casting blue light across his father's expressionless face. An anchorwoman from Zero sat behind a white table, her dark hair done up in a tight bun, and she gave a smile so tight that Owen was surprised her face didn't split open.<p>

"Pardon the interruption," she said, her voice impossibly serene. "Citizens are reminded that physically interfering with a reaping can result in heavy fines or jail time. Assault on a peacekeeper carries a maximum sentence of twenty years. And now, your regularly scheduled programming."

Two flashy newscasters appeared on screen, debating about the potential tributes already gathered from other districts. They brought up a few eye-witness accounts and missing persons reports that had been filed within the last twenty-four hours, and the guy on the left claimed that they knew for certain who four of the tributes were.

These stupid gossip shows would find any way to reign people in, even if it meant capitalizing off of a tragedy. If it wasn't the violence, it was the suspense. If it wasn't the suspense, it was the mystique. After all, "The Last Hunger Games" had a bit of a ring to it.

Owen rolled his eyes and headed for the door. He needed to clear his head.

From the kitchen, his mother called, "Where are you going, Owen?"

Her voice shrilled with worry, and Owen winced. He knew she was just scared - after losing one son to the Game, she had every right to be. Perhaps he should have been scared, too, and he was. But not nearly as much as he should have been.

"I'm going for a walk," he said, leaning forward to catch sight of her as she bustled around the kitchen. "I'll be back whenever."

From the couch, his younger sister said, "Have a nice time."

He smiled at her in thanks, and headed out into the bright morning sunlight.

Stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets, he stared down at the ground. He didn't know if the District Four male had been reaped yet, but he knew his chances weren't great. He'd taken out a lot of tessarae for various reasons, though mostly in order to sell the supplies for money. He'd lost count of how many times his name would be entered into the reaping bowl this year, but it was somewhere north of two hundred. His family wouldn't have had enough to make ends meet otherwise.

He veered left onto a small road that would take him to the ocean side. After a minute or two, he heard a car approaching, and out of the corner of his eye, he watched a black van with tinted windows drive up alongside him and match its pace to his. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

The passenger window rolled down, and an empty voice asked, "Owen Blackwood?"

He stopped, eyes fixed straight ahead. The car stopped, too. Could he lie? Could he fight? Could he flee?

No. They would catch him. They would win.

Slowly, carefully, he turned to face the shadowy figures in the window. "Who's asking?"

They ignored his question and took his response as confirmation. Or perhaps they knew all along, and had only asked him as a formality. "Owen Blackwood, you have been chosen to represent District Four in the One Hundredth Annual Hunger Games."

He thought of running. To where, he didn't know. Anywhere that wasn't here.

As if reading his mind, the voice said, "Son, you have two choices. You can comply, or you can resist. Compliance will result in no immediate harm to your person. Resistance, however, may result in lethal force being used against you. If so, we will simply find another tribute to replace you."

Owen sniggered. It wasn't much of a choice if he was fucked either way.

"I guess I'll comply, then," he said, giving them a dead smile.

The vans' back doors swung out, and two people hopped onto the street, faces hidden by black visors. They were both taller than him, which was fairly unusual considering he was nearly six foot five. One held up a black bag, and Owen's gut clenched as they stepped forward and pulled it down over his face.

"Really?" he asked, almost more exasperated than afraid. He'd already agreed to comply. Was the bag really necessary?

Hands wrapped around him, pushing him forward, and he stumbled in the general direction of the van. They threw him inside, and the doors slammed shut behind him.

Though he had made no move to resist, a needle pricked his neck and sent a wave of ice water through his veins, numbing everything in its path. He drew a sharp breath, cringing as the fear swelled, then slowly died down, smothered by the haze of nothingness that rolled across mind. Desperately, he tried to hold onto the anger, the fear, anything at all. But it all crumbled in his grasp and he fell into the blank space.

* * *

><p><strong>Polly Brady, District Three<strong>

* * *

><p>The water shone dully under an overcast sky, but compared to the way it had looked only a few years ago, it was absolutely gorgeous. A few of the more zealous locals had decided to implement a clean-up effort for the neighborhood waterways, and by all reasonable measurements, they had been quite successful. The expanse of water before them was rather like a pond, but the residents of District Three, having rarely seen anything that could remotely qualify as non-urban, took pride in referring to the now-clean patch of reeds and water as a lake.<p>

Regardless of designation, Polly liked it because, contrary to the rest of the district, this place offered a sense of calm. No demands, no one telling her she wasn't enough. It was nice.

Cayla leaned her elbows against the metal railing and gave a theatrical sigh. "But if you moved to District Eight, you'd be around other people who shared your interests."

"That's the problem, though. If I go where all of the fashion designers are, not to mention all of the textile tycoons, I won't be able to find a job. If I stay here, at least the market isn't flooded with factory-made clothing. I just can't compete with that." Polly's mouth quirked with a facetious smile. "And I don't really know how you'd live without me."

Cayla rested her chin on her fist and rolled her eyes. "I'd find a way."

This time, Polly allowed herself a real smile. She hadn't been able to speak so freely, or even just be herself, around anyone else in a long time.

Most people in District Three didn't want much to do with her. She didn't quite have the typical mindset, and she certainly didn't have the typical skill set. Very few students decided to pursue a career that deviated from computers or technology, let alone math and science in general. But she had forgone all those things in favor of fashion and clothing design, which she was actually good at. And that was how she'd met Cayla, her first real friend in maybe forever, so she'd taken it as a sign that things all worked out in the end.

A car pulled up in the parking lot behind them, but neither of them turned to look, too busy were they in enjoying each others' company. A sudden wind picked up, sending ripples across the formerly placid lake. Car doors opened and slammed shut, and boots clacked across the cement walkway.

Two hands fell onto Polly's shoulders, and before she had time to scream, another one clamped over her mouth, and another around her waist. They dragged her away, toward the car in the parking lot.

"Polly Brady, you have been reaped for the One Hundredth Annual Hunger Games. We demand your compliance."

After a split-second of uncomprehending shock, Polly wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted to let them know what sort of terror these people were putting her through, but she couldn't. Not yet.

Cayla stood alone on the sidewalk, hands hanging at her sides and strands of hair whipping around her narrow face, watching them take Polly away and completely powerless to do anything. She looked so small, so delicate. So sad.

Falling backward into the darkness, rough arms grasped at Polly's body as voices commanded her to remain still. In her panic, she kicked out, and her foot connected with the side of someone's helmet. A woman shouted, and a harsh string of curses quickly followed.

"Restrain her!" someone cried, and the van doors slammed shut, closing Polly off from the only world she'd ever known.

Even as the strangers held her down and shot her up with whatever drugs they had on hand, Cayla's tear-streaked face hung at the forefront of Polly's mind.

This couldn't be happening.

* * *

><p><strong>And that concludes the "reapings". Let's be real, this was so much more fun to write. If everything stays on track, there will be six more of these 8-POV chapters, and then we have the bloodbath.<strong>

**So, I'll try to keep to at least a weekly Sunday schedule, but I have midterms this week so it might take a bit longer. Y'know, school and life and stuff. **

**Thank you so much for the reviews! Each and every one fills my authorial heart with joy.**

**Now, since this is the first chapter where I start showing off the tributes, here's my "review policy" (I put it in quotes because otherwise it probably sounds pretentious, and who knows maybe it still does): Reviews are not the be-all, end-all deciding factor of a tribute's placement. The story itself is much too important for that. However, I do take reviews into consideration when I'm stuck between two equally good tributes with equally viable personalities and plotlines. But really, as long as I know what you think of the story (i.e., as long as I know you're still reading and still invested), I will be happy. Letting me know through PMs and Skype are just as good as reviews. (A big review number is very nice, though.)**

**Anyways, thanks for reading, and hopefully I'll see you in a week.**


	5. Trains

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

><p><strong>Adara Tassin, District Twelve<strong>

* * *

><p>Adara did not wake up all at once.<p>

She realized she was in a car when it drove over a bump, throwing her head against the metal floor with a muffled thump that send a dull flash of red across her eyelids. A minimum of three peacekeepers sat around her, and she knew they were there because they spoke about the other tribute from her district - some kid named Ace, who apparently put up a nasty fight. Memories of the last few hours returned in bits and pieces as the sedative wore off, and bit by miserable bit, she slowly became aware that she was, without a doubt, more angry than she'd been in her entire life.

Scared, too. But mostly angry.

With straining muscles, she drew herself into a sitting position, and the conversation around her ceased. She glanced up, and saw the three peacekeepers, faces obscured and guns pointed at her. Did they really expect her to attack them? Or did they habitually point loaded weapons at restrained, half-dazed prisoners?

"Adara Tassin," said the one on the left, "you have-"

"Been reaped, yadda yadda, prepare to die, yeah, got it. Save your speech for someone who cares." She was taken aback by her own bitterness, especially since these people could very well kill her if they felt like it, but any surprise evaporated in the heat of her anger. She had every right to be bitter, and they surely wouldn't kill their oh-so-celebrated tribute just for giving them some sass.

The rifles' aim lowered, though not by much.

"Can someone untie me?" she asked, trying to flex fingers that had long since gone numb. "I'm starting to think I'm in some fetish porno." One of the peacekeepers flinched and Adara grinned to herself, happy to see at least one of them finally show some emotion.

"We've nearly arrived," one said, her voice level and cold. "You'll survive another two minutes."

Adara rolled her eyes. "Phrasing! I mean, for shit's sake, s_urvive_? I'm in the Hunger Games! Just how insensitive are you?"

The tension in the van was palpable, and Adara reveled in her captors' discomfort. Anything to make them pay.

Of course, they weren't really the ones at fault. They were just tools of the government, running around and carrying out orders, not actually doing anything of their own volition. That didn't spare them Adara's loathing, though. It just meant they were cruel_ and_ stupid.

A few minutes of barbed silence scraped past before the van finally rolled to a stop. The peacekeepers stood, and one helped Adara to her feet, though they had to crouch to avoid hitting their heads on the ceiling. One of them withdrew a switchblade, and though Adara's gut clenched at the sight, he only used it to cut the ropes around her wrists. The blood returned to her hands in a surge of tingling pain, and she briefly considered punching one of them, but logic won out.

The doors swung open, letting in a flood of late afternoon sunlight. Adara blinked rapidly, trying to accustom her eyes to the overwhelming brightness. The peacekeepers shoved her out of the vehicle with unnecessary force, though they were considerate enough to make certain that she didn't fall on her face.

Still half-blinded by the light, Adara at first had trouble recognizing her surroundings. Black roof, white pavement, silver tracks. A memory rose from her childhood, standing on the platform and waiting to greet her father.

They'd brought her to the train station.

She wasn't sure why that surprised her.

A gleaming white train sat idling on the tracks, and a middle-aged woman stood at the loading zone, facing away from Adara and the peacekeepers. Her hair was drawn up into a tight bun, exposing her neck and upper shoulders, along with the top edge of a nasty, never-quite-healed scar.

"Hello," Adara said, keeping the vitriol in her voice to a minimum as she shrugged off the peacekeepers.

Katniss Everdeen turned around with a hardened expression. She appeared much older than forty-two. "So you're it?"

"I'm it."

Katniss looked over the peacekeepers, then rested her gaze on Adara and gestured to the metal behemoth. "Your chariot awaits."

As they headed to the train, a young boy poked his head out of the doorway, grinning despite the fresh bruise running along the ridge of his right eyebrow. "Hi! I'm Ace!"

"This is your district partner," Katniss said. "Adeline decided to mentor him, so I guess I'm stuck with you."

Katniss's bitterness was renowned throughout the district, what with the whole failed Mockingjay Uprising. The yearly re-branding on her back probably didn't do much to improve her mood, either.

Adara settled into a seat across from her mentor, who didn't even spare her a second glance. It was going to be a long train ride.

* * *

><p><strong>Florian Casimir, District One<strong>

* * *

><p>For once in his life, Florian was at a loss for words. He was used to dealing with people of high status, but the two mentors fell into a special category that made him a bit uncomfortable. They embodied the best of what District One had to offer, and he would either learn a lot from them or embarrass himself horribly.<p>

"Why don't you light it?" Danique asked, pointing to the cigarette in Lourde's mouth.

He took it out and shrugged. "Because we're in an enclosed space. I'll light up later."

"Okay, question." Ivory placed her hands on the table and leaned forward. "Have either of you had any training?"

Danique settled her hands into her lap and let her eyes wander down. "No, not really."

With a raised eyebrow, Lourde said, "Those are two different answers. No, or not really?"

She gave him a hard look. "No. I haven't had any training."

He nodded. "That's more like it." He and Ivory turned to Florian with expectant gazes.

With an easy smile, Florian said, "Of course."

Ivory let out an obvious sigh of relief, prompting a nasty glare from Lourde. She twirled a strand of golden hair around her finger and asked, "How many years and how often?"

Florian made a shaky, noncommittal gesture with his hand. He'd actually played with the idea of volunteering after his father's business failed - or, more accurately, was systematically dismantled by the District One Regulations Board - but he'd also known that, since his father had run a training center that directly competed with the main Academy, he was the last person they'd ever pick to volunteer. They wouldn't want to give him such an honor. Still, he'd trained a bit. Just in case. "Two and a half years, more or less. My average is probably twice a week."

Ivory visibly deflated. "Oh." Crossing her arms, she said, "You got my hopes up for nothing." She nudged Lourde and put on a toothy grin. "Looks like we're gonna lose the last Game, huh babe? Isn't that ironic? We won the first and lost the last."

The man with the unlit cigarette clenched between his teeth looked ready to stab someone. "Ivory, if I cared about your observations, I would have asked. And don't call me babe. You have a boyfriend. It's fucking weird."

She wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned her head against his shoulder. "You're so hot when you're angry."

Lourde gave the tributes a long-suffering stare and removed the cigarette from his mouth. Gesturing to Florian, he said, "I think I'll take you."

"Hey!" Ivory disengaged herself and pulled away. "I want Florian!"

"Sorry. You didn't say anything. And since you've written them both off, I figured you wouldn't care." He put the cigarette back in his mouth. "My decision is final."

In a huff, Ivory turned up her nose and looked out the window.

Florian watched Danique's face fall and felt a twinge of resentment toward their mentors. Didn't they see how big of an impact their attitudes and words had?

He took Danique's hand and squeezed. Her eyes met his, and he winked. If their mentors weren't going to do their job properly, he'd be there for her instead.

"Anyways," Lourde said, "back to business. You'll need an alliance, first of all."

Florian flashed a white smile. "Shouldn't be too difficult."

"Don't be so sure of yourself, kid," Ivory said, leaning her cheek on her fist.

Florian narrowed his eyes and turned to his district partner. "Danique, would you like to ally?"

She gave him a startled, yet hopeful look. "Sure."

Ivory laughed out loud. It was the sort of unnecessarily cruel gesture that made Florian want to shove a platter of food in her face. That would have been awfully improper, though, so he stayed his hand.

"Ignore her," Lourde said. "She took too many bitch pills this morning." Before the other mentor could rise to the insult, he continued. "Ally with whoever you want, as long as you're prepared to deal with the consequences."

Florian nodded. He thought he was prepared. Of course, there was still a lot he didn't know about Danique, but that could be dealt with later. He had time to learn. In the meantime, he had to focus on his own well-being and chances of victory, which possibly meant finding another ally or two. He hoped Danique would agree.

After all, the more, the merrier.

* * *

><p><strong>Enoch Emeris, District Zero<strong>

* * *

><p>Enoch did not want to be here. He did not want to talk to these people. Above all, he did not want to take part in the Hunger Games.<p>

And yet here he was, chatting away with two mentors and a girl whose normal conversation made pumice stone look like high-quality cashmere. Every time she made a derisive comment about their quarters, or Margery's hairstyle, or literally anything that crossed her mind, Enoch forced himself to smile and laugh, or nod, or make any sort of affirmative gesture. The muscles in his face were starting to tire. He'd keep up the act, though. Even if she was a bitch, he wanted her to like him.

He wanted everyone to like him. Everyone who mattered, at least. And as annoying as she was, Charne mattered.

After allowing some time to settle in, their mentors summoned them to the common area to discuss their plans for the coming days.

"Whether you're inclined to play defense or offense," Cyprion said as they sat down around the coffee table, "you have to have a plan."

Charne rolled her eyes. "Really? Until you mentioned it, I was just going to rush in blind and make it up as I go along."

The mentor laced his fingers together. "Cut it out. That attitude won't get you anywhere."

With a huff and a smirk, Enoch said, "I don't think she's capable of any other mode of existence."

His district partner cut him a dirty look. "You've got a mouth on you, Emeris."

_As if you're one to talk._

The corner of his lips twitched, but he kept smiling. "So you noticed!" He clasped his hands and leaned forward. "If you look closely, you'll also see that I have two eyes, and a nose, and even some hair. It all comes together to form a rather nice face, I think."

Charne snickered. "Is that what you call it?"

Marguerite looked up from her clipboard. "Now, children."

Despite her infuriating disposition, Enoch didn't actually want to fight with her, because it was counterproductive and it would do no good to make an enemy on day one. Especially his district partner. So he gritted his teeth and forced his expression to lighten. He turned to her and, in as convincing a tone as he could manage, said, "I think we're both capable of being civil to each other, at least for the next few days. Agreed?"

Sinking farther into her chair, she crossed her arms and looked away. After a moment, she sighed, and her posture softened. "I suppose so."

Satisfied with the tributes' truce, the mentors discussed past years, though they focused mainly on the more recent Games and the strategies employed by those who won. Cephas Peterson, a Career from the Eighty-Fourth Game, abandoned the Pack and let them kill each other off, leaving himself as the strongest tribute in the arena. Leila Nyren, from the Eigthy-Ninth Game, seduced the strongest Career and slit his throat when they reached the final three. Nestor Knowles, from the Ninety-Fifth Game, used those around him as shields against the Careers and mutts, and unflinchingly killed his allies when they were the only ones left. There was much to learn from the victors of the past.

Cyprion and Marguerite finally let them go when the clock's hands hovered near midnight. Since the training center opened around nine in the morning, they'd probably get enough sleep, so long as nerves didn't keep them awake.

Once released, Charne let out a melodramatic sigh, staggered to her room, sprawled out on the bed, and put on a surprisingly charming come hither grin when Enoch paused in the doorway. Patting the empty space beside her, she said, "There's room for you, too."

He fought to suppress a smirk. "You're not my type."

"Oh really?" she asked, tone rising with mock-offense. She propped herself up on her elbows. "And just what is your type? Farm animals?"

Irritation seared his insides, but he successfully fought to conceal it. He wouldn't let her get under his skin. "_Good night, Charne_."

As he headed down the hall, she snorted like a pig and broke down into a fit of laughter. It wasn't a clean sound. Her voice carried an edge of hysteria, something scared and desperate, and he winced because he knew, no matter how much he hated himself for it, he felt the same way. The same fear. The same weakness. The same imperfection.

_No._

He was better than that. He had to be, in order to make it out alive.

Even if it meant lying to himself, burying the negativity so deep that he could pretend it didn't exist. Otherwise, his situation - the terror, the danger, the things he would have to do, have to endure - would swallow him whole.

* * *

><p><strong>Nynette Saghas, District Nine<strong>

* * *

><p>First, the peacekeepers had broken into her house and dragged her away from her family. Then, they took her to the train, and forced her to wait with the mentors for a number of hours before they brought her district partner. Now, this newly arrived boy was, as far as she could tell, doing everything in his power to drive her insane.<p>

She was ready to scream.

As their mentors gave the introductory speech, her district partner cracked his knuckles. One. By. One. Not paying attention, not giving the victors their due respect. Just making noise. Pointless, ugly noise.

She reached out and wrapped her fingers around Samson's hand. "Stop doing that."

He made a weird face and pulled away from her. "Okay…"

Nynette stared at him until she was certain that he meant it, then gave a satisfied nod. Some people didn't realize how irritating they could be. Nynette, on the other hand, knew how much she annoyed other people. She wished she could be different, but some things were unbearable, and she didn't want to endure those awful, disgusting, useless sounds if she didn't have to.

Sensing the tension between them, Eli said, "Well, as we were saying-"

"-there isn't really any set of given rules for every arena." Isaac finished.

The twins, supposedly fraternal though they could have been identical, were District Nine's most recent victors. Eli's darker hair and eyes were the only things that reliably distinguished them from each other. They'd both been reaped and won consecutive years. Everyone knew that it had been rigged - after all, what were the chances of both twins getting reaped, especially within a two-year time span? But the sensation of twin victors overshadowed any suspicion that would have cropped up.

"So," Eli continued, "the only advantage you can give yourself on such short notice is a strong alliance. Or, if you'd prefer to go solo, make sure you have a solid understanding of the other tributes. Understanding your enemies can make or break you, because in the Game, the tributes are the only constant. The arena may change, the gamemakers may change, but scared teenagers don't."

"They aren't enemies," Nynette said. "They're kids. Like us."

Isaac smirked, but it was an expression devoid of amusement, more pitying than anything. "Not anymore. If they're willing to kill you, they're the enemy."

"I'd rather not think of other people in that way."

"Get used to it," said Samson, with more of an edge than necessary. "You'll have to if you want to live."

Eli pointed to her district partner. "See? He's got the right idea."

They entered a tunnel, throwing the cabin into darkness, and Nynette crossed her arms. Since when had everyone decided to gang up on her?

Sensing her discontent, Eli added, "Look. I know you want things to work a certain way." He gestured to his brother, as well as Samson. "We all do. But it doesn't. And if you don't adapt, you _will_ die." He pressed his hands together and leaned his chin on the tips of his middle fingers. "And if you aren't comfortable with that, ally with someone who is. Use their strength to your advantage."

"So manipulate them, basically?"

"Don't be deliberately obtuse." He shook his head, and looked out of the window. "You'll have to manipulate people, even if it's a mutually beneficial relationship. You don't have to like it. You just have to live."

"I don't manipulate people."

Her mentor's face warped with a strange expression, as if he couldn't understand why she would be so dense. "Any alliance you make will be, on some level, manipulation. Assuming you plan to win, you'll stick around with a few people, using them for their capabilities and resources, and maybe even companionship, all while secretly hoping that they'll die before you do." He leaned closer. "You've been dragged into a very bad situation, Nynette. If you plan on surviving, you have to get off your high horse and accept reality."

Nynette cringed away, stung by his words, annoyed in spite - or perhaps because - of the truth they carried. She didn't want to use people. She didn't want to hurt people. She didn't want to become the person her mentor had described.

She just wanted to go home.

* * *

><p><strong>Ryder Corinthus, District Six<strong>

* * *

><p>She paced the length of the train, biting her nails. Three pairs of eyes followed her, either irritated or concerned, and she didn't care which. Maybe if they watched long enough, she'd do a trick.<p>

Ryder had never been very good at sitting still. Or standing still. Or anything that involved a lack of motion, really. The fact that she could be dead in a few days didn't help. She wanted to move while she still could.

"Nervously walking around won't help anything," Tristan said, steepling his fingers and trying to look smart.

Ryder rolled her eyes and let her hand fall to her side. "I'll do what I please."

"Uh huh," he deadpanned, seemingly unconvinced. "I just think that maybe discussing strategy would be slightly more productive."

"We can strategize later."

"Actually," Nyx said, her voice tremulous with age, "he has a point. It's better to start now, when it's just you two. Later, you won't have nearly so much privacy."

After a brief pause, Ryder decided to make a compromise. "Sure, we can talk. But I'm not going to sit down." She snatched an hors d'oeuvre from a silver platter, some sort of shrimp something, and stuffed it into her mouth. Her sleeve slipped down to her elbow, revealing her forearm, and her mentor's eyebrows drew together in concern.

"What happened to your arm, love?"

Glancing down at the dark splotch of skin just under her wrist, Ryder shrugged. With a full mouth, she answered, "One of the peacekeepers got a little grabby, I guess."

Nyx shook her head in disappointment. "Just a little, huh?"

Ryder drew a long breath. "Well, I might have punched them." After a moment's hesitation, she added, "Repeatedly." Nyx let loose a hearty laugh, and even Axel, ever the stone-faced pessimist, cracked a grin.

"Maybe not the wisest choice, but it's good to know you got some fight in you," Nyx said. "Now, you just have to harness it."

"Oh yeah?" she asked, absentmindedly twirling a strip of hair around her finger. "And just how would I do that?"

"Set an objective," Axel said. Ryder jumped a little at the sound of his voice, since it was the first time he'd spoken since boarding the train. "Give yourself something to put your energy toward. Survival is the main goal, but between here and victory, there are a lot of smaller objectives that you'll have to complete. You want to live? Find food and water, find shelter, acquire a weapon, fight off any attackers." He stopped short of "kill the other tributes", but the implication was there nonetheless.

Ryder nodded to herself. "Makes sense. Little goals add up to the big goal."

"You'll want to find an ally or two," Nyx said. "Granted, not every victor had an alliance, but it certainly doesn't hurt."

"Unless they're crazy psychos willing to kill their allies," Ryder pointed out. "Then it kinda defeats the purpose."

"True. But," she said, eyeing Tristan, "if you ally with your district partner, there's a high likelihood that he won't betray you. After all, those who murder their district partners generally become pariahs, even if it is necessary in the end."

"Insurance, basically," Ryder said, mulling the idea over.

Nyx nodded.

Ryder turned to Tristan. "Well? Are you a crazy psycho?"

He smiled just a bit too wide, she hoped on purpose. "Last time I checked? No." He raised his hands in a noncommittal gesture. "But who knows? It's a crazy world we live in."

"Uh huh." She thought for a moment, and came to the conclusion that he probably wouldn't try to stab her in the neck the first chance he got. But if he did, she'd be ready. "Wanna be allies?"

He smirked. "I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

><p><strong>Armand Castillo, District Eleven<strong>

* * *

><p>Will Husker and Devara Cheran welcomed them aboard the train as a pair of funeral directors would welcome two new corpses. Armand immediately decided that he didn't like them or their bleak demeanor.<p>

"Please," Will said, gesturing to the chairs across from him. "Take a seat."

Sinora didn't sit down so much as congeal into a sitting position. Armand eyed her up and down. He'd never seen her around District Eleven. Of course, there were a lot of people he'd never seen.

"So," Devara said, peering at them with passing interest, "what skills do you have?"

"I'd rather not talk," Sinora said, rolling over to face the window. "I don't have to prepare a speech for you."

Pursing her lips, Devara turned to Armand. "And you, young man?"

Leaning back in his seat, Armand smiled. "I'm good at just about everything."

Freelancer of felony, prince of purloin, ragamuffin ruler of a strictly-organized, highly successful, much-hated crime syndicate - in his mind, Armand was all of these things and more. The self-proclaimed mob-boss hadn't taken too kindly to being reaped, though it hardly surprised him.

He was the biggest and the baddest, and whoever said it was lonely at the top was sadly mistaken. The top wasn't lonely at all. It was an overcrowded warzone. People were never satisfied with just being at the peak, so they fought for the apex because there's only room enough for one. But the apex was precarious. One false move, one push in the wrong direction, and it's all over.

Armand was at the apex, and people were constantly trying to bring him down so that they could take his place.

He and his gang were the real deal. They went where they wanted, did what they wanted, took what they wanted. No adults to tell them what to do, no rules, no nothing. They lived in stolen space and ate stolen food, and he ran the whole operation. They reported to him, followed his orders, and he liked it that way. He was king.

Though Armand hated everything about his current situation, he took solace in the fact that the peacekeepers probably had a bitch of a time finding him. He and his brother had left the orphanage a while back, so the idiots with guns probably had to ask around, telling everyone that they were gonna bring down the local crime lord in one fell swoop. Armand knew that's why they reaped him. He and his mooks had caused so much trouble, stolen so many things and disrupted so much of the local commerce that the authorities had finally decided to put their foot down and cut the snake off at the head.

_We'll just send him to die in the arena. Solve the Armand problem and save some other sap from the chopping block. Two birds with one stone._

Armand knew that was why they'd chosen him, "unbiased selection" his ass, but he didn't regret his decisions and wouldn't let the Game intimidate him. He was the toughest kid in District Eleven. He didn't _need_ to be scared.

Of course, he failed to realize that the antics of a rag-tag team of prepubescent boys hardly concerned the local authorities, let alone the entire district. It never occurred to him that his entry into the Hunger Games could have been due purely to bad luck. After all, the world revolved around Armand Castillo.

* * *

><p><strong>Aviana Recine, District Ten<strong>

* * *

><p>The train ride had gone well enough. Juniper, Aviana's mentor, was quiet, but helpful. They'd discussed a wide range of topics that would potentially arise in the Game, like dealing with difficult allies and finding food and water. Her district partner, Benjamin, seemed pretty nice, though there was something reckless about him that she didn't quite like. She had nothing against free spirits - in fact, she liked to think of herself as one - but Benjamin was something else. He was just a bit<em> too<em> charming.

"Now," Juniper said, "since you won't have to get into a chariot and parade around in front of a crowd, that gives you some extra time to rest up and strategize. You might want to consider eating as much as possible in your free time, since these are the Hunger Games and the arenas tend to lack decent food supplies." She pulled out a notepad. "Here are some other suggestions that-"

"Look at that!" Aviana interrupted, leaning over Benjamin's lap. She knew that being so close would probably make him at least a little uncomfortable, but boundaries were meant to be tested, anyways. People tended to show their true colors when dragged outside of their comfort zones.

A little irritated, her district partner asked, "Look at what?"

She pointed out the window, and a strand of her hair brushed against Benjamin's leg. "District Zero, silly!"

The city stood bright against the night, blue and white neon light flooding the sky above and drowning out the stars. A few airships drifted across the skyline, one even displaying _WELCOME, TRIBUTES_ on the side in big red pixels.

"At least they're happy to see us," Aviana said, returning to her seat.

Fae shook her head. "It's just a formality. They aren't going to _see_ any of you until the Game begins."

"They can't keep us totally hidden, can they?" Aviana wrinkled her nose, a little let-down by the thought. She'd at least wanted some recognition, maybe even the flash of a camera or two as she waved to an adoring crowd, even if it was all fake. "I'm sure some glory hounds will come looking for us, and then tell the rest of Panem who the tributes really are. I mean, people here are like that, right?"

"Some of them," Fae agreed, "but they've made that punishable by a fine of two hundred and fifty thousand gold and ten years imprisonment with no parole. No one will look for you, and if an unauthorized person, by some unlucky accident, actually manages to find you, they will keep their mouths shut if they know what's good for them."

Aviana blew a halfhearted raspberry. "That stinks."

"It's a blessing and a curse," Fae said. "You won't have to go through the stress of the chariot rides and the interviews, but you also won't have a chance to make your case to the sponsors. They'll go for whoever looks the strongest or the prettiest." She paused and gave Aviana a once-over. "You should be fine, actually."

A satisfied, bashful blush washed over Aviana's face, and she pressed her hands to her cheeks. "Oh, you." She knew that she was pretty, or at least pretty enough, and even though she didn't want to be vain, it was always nice to hear others agree. If it meant that people would sponsor her for it, all the better.

"And me?" asked Benjamin, daring to be hopeful.

Even though she was his mentor, Fae's split-second hesitation spoke volumes. "Well, you certainly don't look weak."

"On the bright side," said Juniper, trying to salvage the conversation, "there won't be as many Careers this time, so you'll look stronger in comparison, and the sponsor money will likely be split more evenly."

"Uh huh," Benjamin said, obviously let-down. "I guess that's a plus."

Aviana wrapped her arm around his neck and kissed his cheek. "It's okay! We won't need sponsors."

And for a moment, she almost believed it.

* * *

><p><strong>Niko Sundita, District Thirteen<strong>

* * *

><p>A dark van full of peacekeepers met them at the train station and shuttled them to the hotel, all for the sake of "keeping the tribute identities secret", apparently. The peacekeepers made Niko nervous, but at least that meant no paparazzi.<p>

When they arrived, the ornate building was nearly empty. A lone woman, dressed in a wide array of colorful silks, met them at the entryway. She introduced herself as the hotel manager and told them that she had been sworn to secrecy, and like all of the other hotel staff, wasn't allowed to leave or communicate with the outside world until the Game began. As per District Zero orders, all of the other guests had been forced to leave.

Niko thought it was ridiculous.

"The tributes from Districts Zero, One, Two, Four, Five, Ten, and Eleven have already arrived," she said. "You will meet them tomorrow. In the meantime, one of our waitstaff will show you to your quarters."

On cue, a young man, probably only a few years older than Niko himself, appeared in the archway and beckoned them forward. "Please, follow me."

They entered a gilded elevator and ascended to the seventh floor, whereupon the panel dinged and the doors slid open to reveal a sparsely furnished, granite-floored hallway. The man brought them to room 64, handed Azura the keys, bowed, and left.

Brand and the mentors all hurried into the room, but as Niko crossed the threshold, his breath caught in his throat and he froze. The suite had four bedrooms, one kitchen, one living room, a bathroom, and another closed door at the end of the hall, the purpose of which he could only guess. A dark table sat in the center of the kitchen, topped with a fancy looking flower pot, and abstract paintings hung on the pristine white walls. He crept through the living room and down the hallway, feeling out of place, like he might mess something up just by being there. This hotel suite was bigger than his house.

He'd never been anywhere so nice before.

Sticking his head inside one of the rooms, he saw a huge bed wrapped in sheer, creamy sheets. It looked very comfortable. A tall window spanned one of the walls, looking out across the city - or, at least, a projection of the city. There was even a personal bathroom, with a big mirror and a tiled floor and everything.

"You know," someone said, startling Niko, "you can actually step inside."

His mentor, Oren, walked up beside him and cocked his head toward the room. "It's all yours."

"Are you sure?" Niko asked. Realizing how silly the question was, he quickly added, "I just don't want to ruin anything. It all looks so nice."

Oren smiled. "You could strip the sheets and burn them, and they still wouldn't mind. Really, you're fine."

Niko nodded. He wasn't concerned about pissing the hotel people off, or even ruining the furniture in and of itself. They could take care of their own problems. He was worried about ruining the unruined snow.

Once, when he was younger, a storm blew into District Thirteen, and over the course of one night, wrapped everything in a blanket of glimmering white. The peeling paint, broken fences, and dirty roads disappeared under a thick layer of fluffy, sparkling snow, transforming his sub-par neighborhood into something beautiful, something clean, something so silent that it bordered on eerie. But the effect didn't last long.

Before even a few hours passed, people had walked all over it, or driven through it, or shoveled it away, leaving streaks of mud and churning up the once-uniform planes of snow. Whatever made it so special, Niko had come to suspect, resided solely in the untarnished, pristine quality of it all. Once contaminated, the magic disappeared.

That was how he felt now. He didn't want to move things around or otherwise claim the room as his own, lest he leave it uglier than before. He'd seen so few genuinely pretty things in his life that he had a tendency to cling to the few that he could get his hands on.

Nevertheless, heeding his mentor's advice, he took a few tentative steps forward, eyeing the luxury with a mixture of awe, jealousy, and disbelief. What he wouldn't give to have a fraction of this luxury back home, or to share it with his family.

Hesitantly, he lowered himself onto the bed. The mattress didn't even squeak, and it was the softest thing he'd ever had the pleasure of lying on.

He didn't stand a chance.

When Oren came back to check on him, he found the boy fast asleep on top of the covers. Niko's shirt had ridden up, exposing his stomach and a nasty, half-healed bruise that ran along the side of his ribcage. Oren frowned.

The prep team would probably be able to get rid of it, but that still begged the question of where the bruise came from. Oren shrugged, and returned to the kitchen, where Azura waited to discuss strategies with him. He could ask the kid in the morning.

* * *

><p><strong>Look at that, two weeks exactly. I planned on finishing the chapter yesterday, but FanFiction was being lame. Anyways, here are the next eight! Let me know what you think of them.<strong>

**Next chapter is Training Day One. See you then!**


	6. Training Day One

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

><p><strong>Sinora Midori, District Eleven<strong>

* * *

><p>Sinora wasn't actually asleep. Just pretending.<p>

Out in the living room and kitchen, Armand and the mentors were getting ready to face the day. Coffee, words, clanking silverware. She didn't want any of it.

All her life, she'd never wanted any of it. Sleeping was better than work, silence was better than noise, nothing was better than something. Sure, people disliked her for it, despised the lazy girl who would rather stay home than break her back working in the fields. No matter what they did to motivate her, she just didn't care. Not even her abduction into the Hunger Games had done anything to phase her. It was simply another thing, another event that slipped past on the river of dull unimportance that was her life.

If she could have stayed there, forever lying in the twilight between sleep and wakefulness, she might have been happy. But alas, it was not meant to be.

Someone knocked on the door, and she remained silent, hoping that they would go away. They knocked again, though, and taking advantage of the lockless doors, barged in without asking. It was Armand.

Of course.

"Hey, Sinora," he said, one hand on the door knob and one on the frame as he leaned into the room. "It's almost time for training, and Devara told me to wake you up, so get your ass out of bed." When she still didn't respond, he walked over and started to kick the bed frame. "Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey, Sinora. Hey. Devara wants you."

"Go away," Sinora moaned. She grabbed one of the pillows from the bed and threw it at his head.

He caught it, and gave her a look that could cut glass. "Suit yourself." As he left, he kicked the bed one last time.

His departure bought her a few more minutes of moping around, before her mentor decided to take care of the problem herself. Three harsh knocks on the door, followed by "I'm coming in!" and Devara opened the door with a frustrated flourish.

"Time to get a move on," she said, flinging the curtains wide and letting in an onslaught of intense morning light.

With a groan of displeasure, Sinora pulled the covers up over her head. "Leave me alone."

Devara ripped the sheet away. "No. Get out of bed. You can't just give up and stay here all day."

"Really?" Sinora looked up at her mentor, expression unchanged. "You and Will gave up the moment you saw me and Armand. Even you don't have any hope." She paused, searching Devara's face for any sign of a response. "So why should I?"

"We haven't written you off," Devara said, and let out a deep sigh as she sat on the edge of the bed. "But you haven't given us much to work with. If you aren't willing to even train, what are we supposed to think?" She crossed her arms. "Will and I, we've seen a lot of tributes die. We do care, and we like to think that everyone has a chance, but realistically, some peoples' odds are much better than others. And by moping around, showing an utter lack of interest in everything, you're reinforcing my fear that your chances aren't good."

"You're supposed to help me regardless."

The mentor turned away. "It's not that we don't want to help you. Believe me, if we could bring everyone home, we would. But I'm tired of investing myself in tributes who always die." Rising to her feet, she added, "I'm not your mom. I can't make you do anything. But I'd really prefer that you train, at least a little bit. And preferably get a move on before launch."

When she was alone once more, Sinora rolled onto her back and scrutinized the ceiling. She really didn't want to go to the training center. Releasing a put-upon sigh, she rose from the bed and looked for some clothes, mentally preparing herself for the unavoidable schlep. It's not like she had anything better to do.

* * *

><p><strong>Maelyn LeBreton, District Five<strong>

* * *

><p>The training center lay on the other side of an underground tunnel that ran below the street to an adjacent city block. Other tributes walked alongside her, some silent, some chatty, and some in between. Maelyn didn't have anything to say, so she said nothing, though that didn't stop some of the others from trying to engage her in conversation.<p>

"What kind of training stations do you think they'll have?" Damian asked, nudging her shoulder. Despite her generally quiet nature, he hadn't given up on her. She didn't know whether she liked that or not.

"I'm sure some will involve medicine, weapons, survival training, and the like."

"What are you going to try first?"

"I don't know."

Damian waited for her to expound upon her response, and when she didn't, he floundered for words. When none came, he tried to talk to her a few more times, bringing up myriad other topics, but Maelyn didn't have much to say about any of them. When they reached the training center, he left her side, wearing an odd expression that she couldn't quite place.

She frowned to herself as she watched him go, hoping he didn't think any less of her. She understood the existence of social cues in much the same way a profoundly deaf person understood the existence of sound. She knew they were there, and she knew that other people saw them. Much to her frustration, though, their meaning always eluded her. Thus, Damian's sentiment remained a mystery.

After wandering around the training center, inspecting each stall and weighing her options, she chose the rope station. They were useful in any environment, of course. Unfortunately, it wasn't nearly so easy as it looked.

"Hun," the trainer said, directing his gaze at the rope hanging limply in Maelyn's hand, "it's not a snake. It ain't gonna bite you."

He didn't have the typical District Zero accent, and she wondered if he'd moved from Nine or Ten. Maelyn's eyebrows drew together in confusion. "Why would I think it's a snake?"

The trainer shrugged. "You're holding it all delicate-like. Anyways, that won't teach you anything. You gotta take charge, and commit to the action," he said, balling his hands into fists. "Elsewise, you ain't gonna learn the proper method."

As the trainer went into his diatribe about proper knot tying techniques, Maelyn looked across the table and noticed the girl from Nine, looking up every few seconds. She stared at the girl until they met each others' gaze. Nine offered a soft smile. Unlike many other expressions, Maelyn knew full well what that meant, and hastily returned the gesture.

"I don't feel like I'm really learning much," Nine said, setting the coil of rope down. "Do you?"

Ignoring the trainer, Maelyn nodded. "I don't feel like I'm learning much, either."

The trainer huffed and returned to his rope collection.

A few seconds of silence passed as the two girls stared at each other, neither entirely sure how to proceed.

Finally, Nine said, "Can I sit by you? Maybe we'll learn faster together."

Maelyn nodded, secretly very pleased that someone else had taken an interest in her. "That logic is sound."

The girl relocated, and in a quiet voice, said, "I'm Nynette."

"Maelyn," she replied, nodding once. "Nice to make your acquaintance."

* * *

><p><strong>Tristan Vorassi, District Six<strong>

* * *

><p>The training center was huge, though the ceiling hung low, and with something like fifty people, tributes and trainers alike, milling around the room, it all felt rather claustrophobic. Tristan didn't like it.<p>

Beside him, Ryder bounced up and down on her heels as she scanned the room for an interesting activity. He half-turned away and rolled his eyes. Her inability to stand still was starting to wear on his nerves.

"Maybe we could try the rope course?" he said, gesturing to the knotted tower. "That looks like-"

"The gauntlets!" Ryder cried, grabbing his hand and pulling him along. "Yeah, that looks like fun!"

Tristan hurried after her and pursed his lips. "Yeah. The gauntlets. Exactly what I was going to say."

Another tribute, the girl from Twelve, was already there, leaping across the platforms and deftly dodging the trainer's blows. She jumped over a padded club and landed on the balls of her feet, keeping her arms out to maintain balance, then sprinted across the remaining obstacles, too fast for the trainers to catch up. One of them held up a stopwatch and nodded in appreciation. "Thirty-six seconds. Not bad."

One of the trainers pointed at them. "You! District Six! You planning on running or just standing there?"

"We'll go!" Ryder cried, dragging Tristan with her before he had the chance to respond. "We're next."

The trainers directed them to the starting line, waited for the girl from Twelve to finish, and gave a countdown. "Three, two one - Go!"

Tristan got an early lead on Ryder, leaping between the platforms at nearly double the pace she did. Unfortunately, he was so focused on his footing that he didn't see the attack until it was too late. A club flew out of nowhere and smacked him on the side of the face, throwing him off-balance and into the crevice between two of the platforms. He pulled his arms to his sides to avoid getting his fingers crushed by the moving parts. A few platforms behind, he heard Ryder's unhindered laughter, and let his head thump to the floor. Of course she'd find pleasure in his misfortune.

She appeared above him, looked around to make sure no trainers were close enough to attack, and offered her hand. "Come on, up you go."

He accepted her offer and was surprised by the strength with which she pulled him up. Once on his feet, he waited for the platform to reach its lowest point, then climbed on. "Thanks."

"No worries," she said, then patted him on the shoulder and sprinted ahead.

He managed to avoid the trainers' other well-placed strikes, hopped the last few obstacles, and finished within a decent time limit. But Ryder still won, of course.

"Thirty eight seconds," the trainer said, nodding to Ryder. Looking at Tristan, he added, "And forty two for you. Not terrible, but it could do with some improvement."

Tristan nodded, fully aware of the resentment twisting in his gut. Everything he did was simply "not terrible", at least when it related to the Game. He'd trained for a short while back in Two, before his fathers' passing and his family's subsequent relocation to District Six, but nothing he'd learned back then mattered now, because he remembered exactly none of it. Then again, most of the other tributes hadn't trained, either. He'd overheard a few conversations, and knew that both from Four hadn't trained, and the boy from Two hadn't, either. All of the other Career district kids were a mystery, but even so, there wouldn't be a proper pack this year. Small victories, he supposed.

"Want to try again?" Ryder asked, still bouncing up and down despite the energy expended on the obstacle course.

Tristan nodded. He'd do better this time.

* * *

><p><strong>Darian Kesslar, District Seven<strong>

* * *

><p>Darian liked to fight. Something about physical conflict made him happy, even when he lost, though winning was surely a bit nicer. He thought the heat of the moment kept things real, and the dark purple bruise around his left eye, the remnant of a schoolyard brawl four days earlier, testified to his love of violence.<p>

Owen Blackwood, Darian's newest target, had no way of knowing this.

Whether through subconscious bravado or a sheer lack of wisdom, Darian had chosen to target the largest tribute in the entire room. The boy from Four had him outmatched by nearly six inches and twenty-five pounds, but that hardly gave the boy from Seven pause for consideration. It simply presented more of a challenge.

He walked up alongside the pair from Four as they readied themselves to climb the rope tower. "Mind if I join you?"

The girl didn't bother to acknowledge him, but the boy shrugged. "Go ahead."

The trainer nodded at him, and wrote something down on her tablet. "Alright, you three. It's a race to the top. If you fall, you're disqualified. Ready, set." She raised her hand, then sliced it down. "Go!"

Darian leaped at the ropes and clawed his way up, keeping an eye on his opponents. When Owen came close, he kicked the rope in Four's hand, ripping it from his grasp.

Owen slipped backward, scrambling for purchase in the empty air, and managed to hook his fingers around a clot of rope before he hit the floor. Craning his head toward the trainer, he said, "How is that not a violation?"

The woman shook her head with mild disappointment. "Anything goes in the arena. There are no rules of etiquette."

Swinging to the floor, Owen straightened his shirt and swore under his breath.

From the top of the tower, Dabria called, "What? Are you just going to let him mess with you like that?"

Darian saw his opportunity. He dropped to the floor, no longer having to feign interest in the rope course, and stuck his face close to Owen's. "Yeah. What are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing," Owen said, frowning with barely-concealed disgust and furrowing his brow. "It isn't worth it."

A flicker of anger licked up Darian's spine. "Oh?"

The trainer stepped closer, hand hovering over her radio, ready to call security at a moment's notice. A smile flashed across Darian's face, and he backed away. "Yeah, you're right. Not worth it." He spun on his heels, the corners of his mouth still turned up with the ghost of a smirk. He'd introduced a bit of conflict, with the added bonus of getting a read on the tributes from Four. Knowledge was power, after all.

Speaking of which, he spied a boy sitting at the tech station, probably from Three or Five. He looked younger than almost everyone else, and seemed to have a nice air about him. Probably a pansy. Darian wondered how much it would take to annoy this new target.

"Hey," he said, seating himself next to the boy. "Who are you?"

The kid smiled, undaunted by Darian's forwardness. He respected that. "Emery. Nice to meet you." Before Darian had the chance to introduce himself, the kid said, "You're the guy from District Seven, right? Darian Kesslar?"

That the kid already knew not only his name, but his district too, caught Darian a little off-guard. "That's me." He gestured to the screen. "Mind if I watch?"

Emery shook his head. "Nope." He refocused on his work, eyes fixed on the cursor as it navigated the system's internal coding. Darian had no idea what the little green glyphs meant, but whatever the kid was doing, apparently he was doing it well.

"Good job," the trainer said. "You've successfully breached the firewall. Now retrieve the critical information, designated by the red text, and open the switch."

Emery clicked and typed some more, completely absorbed in the task at hand. A line of text started flashing at the top of the screen, and the boy let out a harsh sigh, fingers flying across the board. "No, no. No. I'm going to win." A few seconds later, he cheered and pointed at the screen. "Beat that!"

Two tiny mechanical latches next to the computer snapped open in unison, and a piece of red paper fluttered to the tabletop. _Good job_, it read.

Darian leaned forward and draped his arm across Emery's shoulder. Smart and capable definitely made up for being a pansy. "I have no idea what you just did, but you're obviously not an idiot." He turned to face the kid, and his mouth thinned into something that vaguely resembled a smile, carrying the bare minimum of warmth. "I think we should be allies." He spoke in such a way that implied it was in the other boy's best interest to agree.

"Okay," Emery said, more than a little unsure. "I'm open to the idea."

"Excellent." Darian squeezed Emery's shoulder. "We're going to be the best of allies."

* * *

><p><strong>Dabria Laine, District Four<strong>

* * *

><p>Her district partner was useless, that much she knew. After the little incident with Darian, Owen had demonstrated that he couldn't handle conflict, or at least refused to engage in it even when he had the obvious upper hand. She couldn't waste her time with someone as weak as that. In the arena, she'd need an ally who would take any advantage they could, and especially someone who could fend for themselves. Otherwise, they weren't worth it.<p>

So she left Owen to his own non-confrontational devices and set off to work on her skills, and maybe, if she was lucky, scope out another alliance.

The girl from Four picked up a crossbow and examined it, pretending she knew what she was doing. She'd actually dealt with one a few times before, but never extensively. Her family couldn't afford the cost of training, and the Career lifestyle had never appealed to her, anyways. Too bad. She wouldn't have minded some prior training now, but hindsight was 20/20.

A few other people milled around the weapons stations, the closest being the girl from Zero. She fumbled around with some throwing knives, obviously out of her element, and though Dabria wasn't really in a position to judge, she did it anyways.

Charne threw five projectiles at the target, and exactly two made contact, the rest clunking against the colored rings and clattering to the floor. In response, Dabria aimed at her own bulls-eye, and fired five arrows. Four hit the board, and one even hit the second ring from the center.

Lowering the weapon, she threw a wide grin at Charne. _See_, it said. _I'm better than you._

"I'd be good, too," said the girl from Zero, walking over to retrieve the knives, "if I came from a Career district."

"Excuse you," Dabria said, narrowing her eyes. "I'm not a Career." Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she added, "I'm just naturally talented."

"More like you're full of shit. Beginners' luck."

"Even if it was - which it's not - I'm still better than you."

"Best two out of three."

Dabria nodded, and set the target in her sights. "You're on."

Again, four of her arrows struck home, but this time, Charne managed three, as well. She was getting better. Cocking her head and pressing her tongue against the back of her teeth, the girl from Zero asked, "Three out of five?"

Both agreed, each ready to outperform the other. They assumed powerful stances, focusing on the center of their respective targets. Dabria exhaled and steadied her aim. The third and fourth times, Charne won by a margin of one, prompting Dabria to raise an eyebrow. Maybe the rich girl was better than she let on. The fifth time, they tied with five strikes each.

"You aren't half-bad," Dabria said, trying to keep the respect in her voice to a minimum. "For a Zero, at least."

Twirling a strand of hair around her finger, Charne smirked and conceded a nod. "You aren't too awful, yourself."

Letting one last arrow fly, Dabria surprised herself by hitting the edge of the bulls-eye, though she acted as if she'd planned it all along. "Still better than you, though."

"We'll see about that." Drawing back her arm, she paused, calculated, and sent her knife into the third ring from center. She frowned. It wasn't the bulls-eye, so by default, she had lost. Even so, Dabria couldn't help being impressed.

"Have you trained at all before with throwing knives?"

Charne set the rest down and shook her hand in a noncommittal gesture. "Some. Only a couple times, mostly for fun. Party trick, you know?" She sneered. "It's the only weapon here I've ever actually used. Never thought it would actually come in handy, yet here we are."

With a cold smile, Dabria said, "Well, that makes two of us." Gesturing at the target with the crossbow, she asked, "Perhaps we could keep training together? I'm sure the... _competition_ will do us some good."

"You're on," Charne said. "As long as you're content with losing."

* * *

><p><strong>Medea Torell, District Two<strong>

* * *

><p>Medea drew a breath, and forced it between her gritted teeth. She needed to calm down, focus, and relax. The trainers were watching, and when it came time for the arena, everyone else in Panem would be watching, too. She had to be strong.<p>

Two swings of the sword, two red gashes on the dummy.

A trainer whistled. "At least someone around here knows what they're doing. Good to see you've got some experience!"

Medea nodded in thanks, even though she knew that her technique needed improvement. The cuts were shallow, and where she'd hit, they wouldn't do anything more than cause a painful inconvenience to whatever unlucky tribute received them. Her aim needed to be a bit higher, a bit deeper, and a bit further toward the tribute's center of mass. In fact, if she angled the blade just right, she could slip between the ribs and hit the heart.

In one fluid motion, she did just that, and the same trainer clapped. "Excellent."

She sighed. When she was younger, she'd briefly considered the idea of volunteering, before casting it aside in favor of simply training for fun. Volunteers were brave, surely, but they were rather stupid, too. Even as a twelve-year-old, she knew that the potential payout wasn't worth the price, and yet there were people back in Two who would gladly kill to take her place in the arena. Unfortunately, they could not, and she was stuck with the role.

Making things worse was everyone else's lack of training. If Tullus and the tributes from One and Four had been trained, at least she would have had a predetermined alliance. No matter how precarious a membership the Pack was, at least they knew who their teammates would be.

A quick glance around the room revealed a number of budding alliances: the girls from Zero and Four, the girls from Five and Nine, the boys from Three and Seven, the pairs from Six and One , and a few others here and there. Medea felt left-out. She forced down a surge of panic. Just because people were teaming up now didn't mean she would be all alone later on. There were always some loners here and there, right? She could just ask one of them. And if she had to, she could join a preexisting alliance.

The anxiety started to subside. Yes, that's what she would do. Everything would be okay.

In fact, she'd taken note of a lot of the other talented tributes who would make good candidates for an alliance. The boys from Three, Four, and Six seemed especially competent, as did the girls from Four, Eight, and Thirteen. She could approach any one of them and strike up a conversation, if only she could dredge up the confidence. Social interaction made her nervous, and since so much was riding on her decision, it made the anxiety that much worse. If she picked the wrong person, it could get her killed, and like most normal fifteen-year-olds, she had no interest in dying quite yet.

She heaved a sigh and squeezed her eyes shut, ignoring her fears and doubts. No, she would be brave. She had skills to offer, not the least of which being her talent with weapons. If she could find someone with survival skills, they could make a formidable team.

She would ask someone else to ally with her.

...Tomorrow. Probably.

Once she'd had some time to think it over.

* * *

><p><strong>Emery Sobel, District Three<strong>

* * *

><p>He and Darian were among the first to leave for dinner, and for their laziness, they were rewarded with a nearly empty mess hall. Only the girls from District Five and Nine were present, and they'd seated themselves all the way across the room. It felt rather odd to Emery, who had spent the greater majority of his life living in overdeveloped, space-strapped neighborhoods. In fact, the entirety of District Zero felt odd, and not just because a lot of people here looked forward to watching him die. Everything was big and shiny and expensive, and their use of floor space was very, very inefficient. The people back in Three would have probably had a cow if they knew how much space went to waste here.<p>

Even the food was over-the-top. Expensive drinks, marbled cuts of choice meat, fresh fruits and vegetables that he barely recognized, and all manner of desserts and pastries - all of it was overwhelming. He loved the variety.

He piled his plate high with a bit of everything, admiring the craftsmanship that went into each dish. Maybe he could learn a thing or two from the chefs in Zero.

"Couldn't make up your mind?" Darian asked, eyes set on Emery's overcrowded plate.

Emery shrugged. "Not exactly. I just wanted to try a bit of everything. Maybe their food can teach me something. They're obviously very talented."

Darian rolled his eyes. Through a full mouth, he asked, "So you cook, huh? Programming and cooking. Any other extraordinary talents I should know of?"

"Well, I like to knit."

Darian froze mid-chew. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Uh. No?" Emery shook his head. "Why would I be?"

Leaning on his elbows, Darian picked at a bit of food in his teeth. "Nothing, Emery. Nothing at all." He raised his eyebrows and said, seemingly to himself, though Emery knew better, "You can still stab someone with a knitting needle, so I guess it's semi-useful."

Ignoring the jab, Emery watched another group of tributes enter the mess hall, talking fast and laughing a bit too loud. No one actually wanted to be here. He spotted Margery, and turned to his ally. "Do we want to invite her to join us?"

Darian turned around to look, spotted his district partner, and shook his head. "Hell no. She's too soft."

"Soft?"

"Yeah. Too nice, not enough fight."

Emery's eyebrows knit together. He didn't necessarily consider himself weak, but he probably could have been deemed soft. Definitely nice. If his ally didn't like that, maybe he would abandon him in search someone else. "And I'm _not_ nice?"

Darian gave him an evaluative glare. "No, you are. But you also know a lot, and that makes up for it."

"How do you know that Margery doesn't have some secretly useful knowledge? Maybe she could save us in the arena!"

"Gee, I don't know, Emery. In fact, why don't you ask Polly to join? I'm sure she'd love the invitation."

Emery considered this for a moment. "Sure. I don't see why not."

Darian sighed. "Okay, maybe that wasn't the best example. But if we plan on living longer than two seconds in the arena, we need to be selective about our allies. People like Margery... we just don't have the time or the resources to handle those sorts of people. Let her ally with whoever. She'll find someone else."

With a concessionary nod, Emery crossed his arms and leaned them on the table. Darian's quick leaps of judgment were unfounded, but he saw the logic behind those judgments, even if he didn't like it. They had to be selective.

Growing uncomfortable in the tense silence, he gestured to the fading ring of purple around Darian's eye and asked, "So, how did you get that?"

The boy from Seven flashed a quick grin. "I picked a fight with someone who had nothing against cheap shots. Then again, neither do I." Running his fingers along the healing bruise, he added, "Nestor says that the prep team will be able to get rid of it before the Game starts."

"Oh, good," Emery said, nudging some of the food around his plate. After all, the last thing he'd want is for his ally to look beat-up before the killing began.

* * *

><p><strong>Ace Wilder, District Twelve<strong>

* * *

><p>The tributes from Twelve were the last people in the training center, aside from the trainers themselves. Adara was off accomplishing some impressive feat, probably, while Ace was still stuck at the same station he'd chosen that morning. None of the information had really sunken in. Anxiety, probably.<p>

"No," the trainer said, her voice wearing thin. "You cannot simply drink whatever water is available."

"But what if it looks clean?"

"There could be microbes!" she cried, throwing her hands up into the air. "The gamemakers probably won't sterilize the water supply, unless it comes from a faucet or other conventionally reliable source. And even then, maybe they'll make it toxic just to pick off the unwary, like yourself!" She heaved a frustrated sigh. "I swear, we've gone over this at least three times now."

Ace looked down at his hands. "Sorry, okay? I'm trying as best I can."

The trainer relaxed a bit. "I know. You need to try harder, though. You won't have me as a resource in the arena. In fact, you'll only have yourself, and whatever allies you find, though you spent all of today at my station, so you didn't make much progress in that department, either."

He frowned. "I didn't, did I?" He turned to his district partner, still messing around at one of the weapons stations. Throughout the day, he'd noticed her doing a lot of different things, all with the same determined scowl on her face. She was smart, definitely the kind of person he wanted by his side. They were both from District Twelve, after all, so they already had some sense of kinship, even if she hadn't really spoken to him on the train. "Maybe she'd like to ally?"

Following his line of sight, the trainer shrugged. "There's no harm in asking, is there?"

Ace brightened. "No, there isn't." Turning to the woman, he said, "Thanks!" He hurried to Adara, and caught her just as she set the last weapon down.

"Hey," he said.

She looked up, and gave him a brief smile. "Oh. Hi, Ace. Sorry, I was just leaving." She thanked the trainer and set off toward the exit.

"That's okay," he said, keeping pace with her. "I am, too. I was starting to get hungry." Looking down the hallway, he said, "Do you think they're still serving dinner?"

Adara gave a slow nod. "Probably."

He hesitated. "Would you like to go together?"

"No thanks," she said, perhaps a bit too quickly. "I had a big lunch, so I think I'm going to skip dinner."

"Oh." Ace paused, trying to catch his spirits before they fell too far. Adara kept walking, and he called after her before she could disappear into the elevator. "Wait!" She paused, albeit reluctantly, and he slipped into the gilded box alongside her. "Do you want to be allies?"

Her face contorted with regret as she repeatedly punched the button for the eighth floor. As the doors slid shut and they began to rapidly ascend, she crossed her arms. "Look, Ace. I'm sorry, but I don't think an alliance would be the best idea."

"Why not?" he asked, apprehension curdling into anger. "We're district partners!"

She let out a delicate sigh. The doors opened, and she strode out, Ace closely in tow. "That doesn't automatically make us allies. I just don't want to, okay? I'm sure someone else will-"

Her words were cut off by the shattering of glass. She whipped around, and found Ace staring at a spot on the wall where he'd thrown a full vase. Flowers and pottery fragments littered the floor, and a wide swathe of carpet was soaked through and through. Adara just stared.

The door to their room opened, and Adaline Tannhauser stuck her head out. "What was that?"

"He broke a vase because I told him I didn't want to ally," Adara said, backing into the room, never taking her eyes off of her district partner. "Kinda proving my point."

Ace tried to squelch the temptation to throw something else. "I'm sorry, what you said just... It made me mad, okay?"

Adaline rolled her eyes. "Adara, go to your room or something." Turning back to her charge, she beckoned him inside and said, "You and I need to have a talk."

* * *

><p><strong>Alright, almost halfway through the pre-game stuff. As you can see, some alliances are already starting to form. Any particular alliances you expect, or want to happen?<strong>

**4 tributes haven't been seen yet, and that was intentional. It's just the way the chapter POV math worked out, so sorry if you haven't seen your tribute yet! They'll show their lovely faces in the next chapter.  
><strong>

**Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think!**


	7. Toleration

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

><p><strong>Danique Vittori, District One<strong>

* * *

><p>The moment they had set foot in the training center the day before, Danique's spirits had fallen. Despite the lack of volunteers, most of the other tributes looked fit, competent, or otherwise intimidating. Today, everyone seemed just as dangerous, if not more so than they had yesterday. Save a select few, it looked like the competition would be pretty rough. She had no idea how she was going so stand out among them during the training sessions, or how she would attract sponsors in the arena. It all seemed so hopeless.<p>

Dozens of hostile eyes followed them around the room as they walked from station to station. Danique felt them like cold knives pressing against her skin, judging and expectant. But she had nothing to offer. The other tributes saw a weak, run-of-the-mill rich girl, and honestly, that's all she was.

Florian nudged her slumped shoulders. "Relax, will you? You look like your puppy just died, and it's scaring everyone away."

"Sorry," she said, lacking both the energy and motivation to dispute his claim.

His expression softened. "I'm just kidding, Danique." He scanned the room, and nodded toward the weapons station, where a few other tributes were trying their hand at swords and spears. "I'll go see about other allies. Stop by if you need me." He patted her shoulder before he left. "Really, though. Lighten up."

And with that, he headed off, leaving Danique to her brooding. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, resenting her district partner for being so flippant. He was right, though, which made her resent him even more. Rolling a strand of hair between her fingers, she raised the corners of her mouth, trying a lighter expression on for size, and finding that it didn't quite fit.

"You have a nice smile," someone said.

She looked over and saw the boy from Five staring at her from the nearest training station. First aid, or something like that. They made eye contact, and his mouth flashed with a nanosecond grin.

"Thanks," she replied, not entirely sure how to proceed. She hadn't really paid much attention to him yesterday, and had simply filed him away under 'probably dangerous', like most everyone else here. The more she thought about it, though, the less sure she was about that assessment. He hadn't done anything to earn such a judgment, at least not that she'd seen. Still, better safe than sorry.

He pointed toward the camouflage station. "I saw you there yesterday. I'd have never thought to use torn rope fibers in place of dead vegetation." Turning back to the bandages in his hand, he added, "Pretty clever of you."

An unfamiliar embarrassment twisted in Danique's gut. She hadn't thought anyone would notice. She was too used to everyone looking past her and focusing on her older sister. Her crutch. Her shield. For her entire life, Riella had received what Danique craved, yet feared, taking center-stage and diverting everyone's attention from the younger, less interesting sister who always stood just behind the curtain. Protecting her little sister from their prying eyes, stealing the spotlight for herself.

But Riella wasn't here, and for maybe the first time ever, someone had noticed Danique instead. He'd even complimented her, too. Twice.

"I'm sorry," Danique said, curiosity overcoming her nerves. She cautiously taking the seat next to him. "I don't think I ever caught your name."

"Damian Ridge," he said, holding out his hand. "Nice to make your acquaintance."

Danique returned the gesture. "Likewise."

On the table lay a medical dummy, gravely "injured" in multiple places, indicated by gashes in the gelatinous flesh that overflowed with red, non-stick goop meant to represent blood. Damian had wrapped most of the injuries with gauze, and stitched the deepest two together with a needle and thread. Crude, but effective.

"That's pretty impressive," Danique said, gesturing to his stitch work. In reality, she had no idea whether his work was impressive or not. She just wanted to keep the conversation going.

He smirked. "Being a fairly proficient bullshitter myself, I can safely say that you are full of it." Setting the gauze down, he offered her another grin. "But I appreciate the sentiment."

She felt herself blush. Caught red-handed. "Well, it still looks like good work."

With a kind nod, he said, "If you say so."

* * *

><p><strong>Tullus Marl, District Two<strong>

* * *

><p>Under the supervision of two trainers, the girl from Twelve and the boy from Seven attacked each other without hesitation, without mercy, hitting hard enough to draw blood. The girl cried out in pain, and Tullus looked away. A dark thread of memory went taut in the back of his mind, drawing the image of another crying girl in another time and place, but he forced it away. He didn't want to remember. That part of his life was over.<p>

Instead, he wandered across the center, and eventually found himself in front of the holographic sparring chamber. A lone girl stood in the center of the enclosed room, thin hands clutching a hammer close to her chest, and she didn't hesitate to use it against the onslaught of orange-cubed virtual enemies. The range of the hammer required the targets to come a little too close for comfort, though, and though she managed to take four out, she hesitated for a split-second on the fifth, giving it the opportunity to land a critical strike on her neck. The lights flashed, and the enemy figures disappeared.

"Not too awful," the trainer said, rubbing her chin, deep in thought. "But definitely could do with some improvement."

With a brief nod, the girl set the hammer down, chest expanding and contracting with heavy breaths. She obviously wasn't accustomed to such exertion, though she'd done well in spite of that. Of all the tributes here, she seemed like one of the more hopeful choices, and considering that he hadn't seen her with anyone else in the past day and a half, he wouldn't be imposing on a preexisting alliance. No harm in asking, right?

"Hey," he said. She turned with a start, and he instinctively help up his hands, showing her that he meant no harm. "Uh, hi. I'm Tullus."

The girl relaxed, but only by a fraction. "Polly."

Tullus let his arms fall back to his sides as the tension dissipated. "A hammer, huh?"

She examined it, and gave him a brief nod, her shoulders not quite as stiff as before. "Yeah." Glancing at the weapons rack, which displayed everything from swords to spears to obscure and ridiculous things like chakrams, she said, "It's the only thing I really recognized."

Tullus knew nearly all of them, but kept that to himself. Gesturing to the patch on her shoulder that designated her district, he instead said, "That isn't surprising, considering you're from Three."

"Oh, and because you're from Two, you know what all of these things do, right?" She said it with a touch of reproach, but her expression was warm nonetheless.

"Something like that."

"What about you?" the trainer cut in. "Are you here to use the holo-chamber?"

Fear crept along the fringe of Tullus's mind. He'd didn't know if he could bring himself to do it. He'd only come here to talk to Polly, and the violence... he didn't want to be that person anymore. And if he started again, he didn't know where he would stop, or if he even _could_ stop.

But these were the Hunger Games. He would have to hurt people, maybe even kill them, if he planned on having even the slightest chance of going home. He'd just have to be stronger than he had been before. Know his own limits, know when to stop. He could do it. He had to.

"Sure," he said, picking a machete off of the rack, sounding more confident than he felt. "I'm already here, so might as well, right?"

The trainer nodded, and ushered him into the chamber. He hoped she didn't see the waver in his smile, or the hesitation in his stride.

The first couple of holograms were easy enough. They rushed at him head-on, leaving themselves open to attack. He took advantage of their exposed chests, and with each killing blow, the figures dissolved into orange cubes. The third tried to sneak up from behind, but he whipped around and sliced its neck open. He imagined the pain such a strike would inflict, realized what he was doing, and pushed the thought away. But he already felt himself starting to cascade. He _wanted_ to hurt them. See someone suffer.

The next three opponents passed in a blur, "dying" before Tullus's mind could catch up with the attacks he readily doled out. Four more rushed him, and he took them on one by one, feinting and dodging, twisting away and slashing at their necks and faces. Each one fell without so much as touching him. They weren't real, though. Not human. No nerve endings. They felt nothing.

Silence fell upon the chamber, and the lights flashed overhead. The trainer pointed at him and waved him out.

"Good job," she said. "Took care of all ten targets in forty seconds."

Polly appeared beside him, obviously impressed by his performance. "That was pretty cool."

Tullus nodded in thanks, and gently replaced the machete on the rack. He had done it. He was okay.

For now.

* * *

><p><strong>Benjamin Stavros, District Ten<strong>

* * *

><p>The day started off bright and early with coffee and artificial sunlight, since the real sky outside was overcast and gloomy. By the time their mentors had dragged themselves out of bed, Benjamin and Aviana were ready and raring to go.<p>

As they entered the elevator side-by-side, Benjamin reluctantly asked, "So, got any ideas for allies yet?"

"Maybe. Why?"

The elevator doors opened with a pleasant ding, and they headed down the hallway, following the arrows to the tunnel that led to the training center. A few other tributes walked alongside them, like the pair from Seven and the boy from Thirteen, though most were probably still in their rooms, getting ready to face the day.

He drew a heavy sigh. "I was wondering… if you'd be interested in an alliance? With me?"

He tried to make himself sound serous, but it was entirely his mentor's idea. He'd discussed it with Fae the day before, and though he'd agreed to ask Aviana, he had no intention of actually going through with it. Still, he would feel bad if he didn't at least humor his mentor.

"Oh please," Aviana said, crinkling her nose. "You're too much of a fuddy-duddy. Too serious."

Although he was relieved that she agreed with him, he took issue with her reasoning. "I am not 'too serious'. I'm just aware of my situation." He paused, and amended with, "Our situation, actually. If you don't prepare for the worst, it'll catch you off-guard. That's not me being a fuddy-duddy, that's me being prepared."

She gave him a 'no-duh' expression. "Call it what you want, but that's exactly what I'm talking about. You focus on the negative." She rested her hand on his shoulder with mock sympathy. "Just because I don't want to be your ally doesn't mean we can't still be friends."

He swatted her hand away with unnecessary force, though a smile betrayed his amusement. "Well, you're too touchy-feely for me, anyways."

"What, like this?" Before he realized what she was doing, she reached down and gave his left butt cheek a light squeeze and cackled when he jumped in surprise.

"I know it's a new concept to you," he said, a fleeting heat coloring his face, "but there's this thing called personal space. You should try it sometime."

"Or maybe I should just find someone with lower standards." She gnawed on a fingernail, and he noted her line of sight, resting firmly on the girls from Four and Zero. He'd noticed her watching them the day before, too.

Lower standards, indeed.

Inclining his head toward the girls, he raised an eyebrow at his district partner. "I'm sure they'll love you."

A trace of uncharacteristic fear shone in her stooping shoulders and drawn eyebrows. "You think so?"

Benjamin nodded. "Of course. Just because you completely ignore social norms for your own amusement doesn't mean you aren't lovable."

She planted a kiss on his cheek. "You're such a sweetheart." With a wink and a winning smile, she pranced away, hair swinging with the movement.

Benjamin rolled his eyes, unable to suppress a grin. She was a nice girl. Totally lacking in respect for personal boundaries, but nice nonetheless. Shame she had to get wrapped up in a crappy situation like the Hunger Games. Shame any of them did, really. He wanted to wish her well, but he wanted to win, too.

In the meantime, he had to find an alliance of his own. A quick sweep of the room revealed a number of possibilities. He had his eye set in particular on the girl from Seven. He'd observed a number of people the day before, and she seemed the nicest and one of the most sane, whilst also showing a solid range of survival skills and a tendency toward peacemaking.

_No point in waiting_, he thought, and headed over to introduce himself.

* * *

><p><strong>Aviana Recine, District Ten<strong>

* * *

><p>The two girls looked up, eyes narrowed and lips curled into mean smirks. They'd been having another competition to see who was more accurate with their long-range weapons. It looked like Dabria was winning, but only by a few points.<p>

"Hi," Aviana said, seating herself on the ledge of the weapons counter, ignoring a nasty glare from the trainer.

Charne set her knives down. "And you are...?"

"Aviana Recine." She bobbed her head. "Nice to meet you."

"You say that now," Dabria drawled. She leveled the crossbow with the target, and let an arrow fly. It struck the line between the bulls-eye an the first ring. Still a point, apparently, because she pumped her arm and gave Charne a smug grin. "Five."

"Yeah, whatever." Charne rolled her eyes and returned her attention to Aviana. "So, what do you want?"

"I wanted to know if you're open to more allies," she said, swinging her legs back and forth. "You both seem pretty cool, so I thought, why not ask?"

With a cold, steely chuckle, Charne cocked her head to the side. "And what exactly do you have to offer? Can you hit things? Swing a sword? Heal people?" She put on a false half-smile, imitating Aviana's attempt to keep a neutral expression. "Can you do _anything_?"

Zero's cruel tone didn't phase Aviana. She'd dealt with plenty of people like that before, and she wasn't about to let a potential alliance slip through her fingers because one of the tributes needed an attitude adjustment. "Combat-wise, no, not really. But how hard is it to swing a sword, really?" She stared Charne straight in the eye, not afraid of the other girls' glacial blue glare. "But I do know a bit about medicine and plant identification. And I can tie ropes like no ones' business." She finished with a wink.

"Kinky," Charne deadpanned. She crossed her arms, pooching her lips as she decided what to do about the girl from Ten. "And that's all you can do?"

"Well, I could give you an exhaustive list, but we'd probably be here for a while. Don't forget that I'm perfectly capable of learning things, too."

"And a smartass, to boot." With a melodramatic sigh, Charne spared a knowing glance toward Dabria. "Aren't we lucky?"

"Apparently so." The girl from Four set her crossbow down and sauntered over, placing a hand on either side of Aviana's legs, and leaned in close until their noses were almost touching, breathing each others' air. "There's this big question mark hovering above your head right now, and I'm not much in the mood for mysteries. So tell me: why should we trust you with our lives? Better yet, why would you trust _us_ with _your_ life?"

Aviana narrowed her eyes and leaned a few millimeters forward, refusing to let this girl intimidate her. She didn't let any hint of vitriol enter her voice. "I don't know. Why does anyone trust anyone? I think the potential payoff is worth the risk. And if it's not, I'll deal with the consequences." She allowed herself a small, ever-so-slightly self-satisfied grin. "Besides, considering it's just you two, I think I can handle myself."

For a brief moment, she thought Dabria might hit her, but the older girl's poker face broke into something warmer, almost happy. "What you lack in brain cells, you make up for in confidence. At least you have something going for you, I guess." She pushed off of the table, arms swinging in front of her, and turned back to Charne. "Well? What do you say?"

At this point, Zero seemed more amused than anything. "We can at least give her a chance, like the warranty period for a sassy vacuum cleaner with no social boundaries and an overinflated sense of self."

"Give me a break," Dabria said, shouldering past her ally. "You're one to talk. You're like a case study in teenage narcissism."

As her new allies argued over the finer points of armchair psychology, Aviana smiled. At the very least, her time in the arena would certainly be interesting.

* * *

><p><strong>Evelyn Arellis, District Eight<strong>

* * *

><p>The girl from Two hovered at the plant identification station, not really paying attention to her work, and instead stealing glances at Evelyn every ten seconds. It was starting to irritate her. Either the girl would scrape up the courage, or she would give up and leave, but at least the decision would be made.<p>

Evelyn glared across the table until their eyes locked. The girl from Two blinked, but didn't look away. Evelyn respected that.

"Medea, right?"

"Correct," said the girl from two.

"Well Medea, you've been staring at me for the past fifteen minutes, and it's making me uncomfortable." Evelyn narrowed her eyes. "Either do something or go away."

Medea blinked again, unfazed, and nodded. "You seem like one of the more put-together tributes around here. I don't have any allies yes, and as far as I can tell, you don't have any allies, either. I figured you'd be the most logical choice." She cocked her head to the side. "Unless you don't want an ally, in which case I'd be happy to leave you alone."

After spending the last few years fending for herself, Evelyn had come to realize that most people only cared about themselves. Even her supposed parents, paragons of virtue that they were, had abandoned her shortly after birth, handing off their responsibility to some stranger who could have sold her into child slavery for all they'd known. But they'd done it all the same, and she couldn't change the past. In any case, it had shaped her into the person she was today, and in a very small respect, she thanked them for that.

Much like her parents, Medea, and all of the other tributes here for that matter, were only looking out for themselves. Even Evelyn.

_Especially_ Evelyn.

Could she afford to trust another person in a game where there could only be one survivor? Someone who had formal training? Someone who could kill her without much trouble?

She'd trusted Terryn enough to accept the girl into her home, and as much as she hated to admit it, she cared about her friend. To date, Terryn was the only person who'd even glimpsed the real Evelyn, the desperate girl who sunk her teeth into every glimmer of hope like a half-starved dog, who was tired of putting on an impassive, bitchy front day in and day out, because it was the only way to keep all of those selfish people who only helped themselves from stepping all over her. Lucky for Evelyn, Terryn had still chosen to stand by her, even though she knew the truth.

This new girl, Medea, was nothing like Terryn. And even if she was, Evelyn couldn't let herself become too attached. The circumstances were entirely different. She couldn't let herself form another bond, because in the scheme of things, such sentimentality would only put her in danger. She'd have to be prepared to do anything for survival, personal preferences be damned. If they did agree to ally, it would be a working relationship only. Evelyn had already lost so many parts of herself to the machine of District Eight and to the maw of Panem as a whole, that she didn't know how much more she could sacrifice. So, she wouldn't. Not if she could help it.

Even from a purely objective standpoint, Medea was a risk. A potentially helpful person in the long-run, but a risk nonetheless, especially since she would be one of the only formally trained tributes in the arena. Then again, it would be nice to have that kind of skill set on her side.

Evelyn weighed the possibilities as the girl from Two looked on. Medea could kill her. Medea also had training and knowledge, which would increase Evelyn's own chance of survival. But she could also become an emotional liability if Evelyn wasn't careful. Was she worth the risk?

"Okay," Evelyn finally said. "I'll be your ally, but on one condition. We aren't friends, okay?"

"So we're survival buddies, then?"

Evelyn nearly gagged at the use of such a squishy buzzword, but forced herself to nod. "Slightly more formal than that, but yeah, you get the gist."

"I can live with that," Medea said, relieved.

_Or maybe you won't_, Evelyn thought.

"Good," she said, and nodded at the plants laid before them. "Let's get to work."

* * *

><p><strong>Brand Coil, District Thirteen<strong>

* * *

><p>The foam-padded sparring pole struck her on the side of the head, knocking her off-balance, and her teeth involuntarily clamped down on her lip. Arms flailing, she regained her footing as a trickle of blood seeped down her chin. She winced and she wiped it away.<p>

Owen's eyes widened at the damage he'd inflicted, and he took a tentative step back. "I, uh." He paused, searching for an apology. "I didn't mean to do that."

Brand waved him away. "It's fine, really." The terseness of her voice made it obvious that it really wasn't fine, and she knew it. She also knew that it really had been an accident. Holding onto the bitterness had never done her any good in the past, and she couldn't afford to mess up another relationship this early-on, particularly with someone who had made the effort to approach her in the first place.

With a heavy sigh, she lowered her shoulders and offered him a small smile. To her surprise, she actually meant it. "You just surprised me, is all."

He relaxed by a fraction. "Yeah. Sorry."

They readied themselves for another match, but Brand noticed the boy from Zero lingering at the periphery of the sparring mat, thumbs hooked in his pockets and a faint smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. She didn't know how long he'd been standing there, but she found his smug face immediately annoying. In fact, everything about him seemed very punchable.

"What are you looking at?" she demanded, stepping back from Owen before he could land another unlucky hit. Her ally paused and followed her line of sight, frowning when he saw the object of her scorn.

Enoch, apparently surprised that they'd noticed him, put on a sheepish expression. "Just watching." Sheepish or not, Brand didn't really trust him. She couldn't tell if he was being genuine, but she wasn't about to place her faith in anyone from Zero, especially not someone who would soon be in a position to kill her. District Zero had created this whole stupid Game in the first place. His people were the reason for the whole damn thing, as well as the suffering of countless families, friends, and especially tributes over the last century.

Of course, he was there for the same reason, but that was beside the point.

"Just watching, huh?" Owen cocked his head to the side, and raised an eyebrow at Brand before returning his gaze to Enoch. With the slightest hint of mockery, he said, "Some hands-on learning would probably do you more good than sitting on the sidelines." Owen stood nearly half of a foot taller than the already tall boy from Zero. Enoch instantly acknowledged this vital discrepancy in their heights, starting to shake his head and ready to back away from the provocation, until Owen said, "Unless you're scared."

It wasn't quite a taunt, more like a benign challenge, but those three words seemed to have a near-magical effect on Enoch Emeris. He stood a little straighter and squared his shoulders, mouth set into a hard half-smirk. He took one of the sparring sticks from the rack, and assumed a battle-ready stance. At first, Brand didn't understand the complete reversal in Enoch's behavior, and it took her a few seconds to fit the pieces of logic together into a coherent picture. When she did, she almost laughed, both at the simplicity of it all, and at Enoch's general demeanor. Of course! The peacock had to defend his ego.

The fight was short, but even so, it lasted much longer than Brand expected. Despite Owen's obvious advantage in terms of size and mass, Enoch managed to hold his own for a good thirty seconds, striking at vulnerable areas like the chest, neck, and stomach. He even landed a hit on Owen's face before the larger boy forced him off of the mat with one powerful blow.

"Not bad," Owen said, genuinely impressed. "For a guy from Zero, at least."

Enoch held a hand over his heart, still panting. "I'm touched." He walked back onto the mat, and assumed a fighting stance. "Round two?"

Even though she still only trusted him about as far as Owen could throw him, at the very least, Brand had to respect Enoch's persistence. Maybe she'd be able to put up with him, after all.

* * *

><p><strong>Samson Galloway, District Nine Male<strong>

* * *

><p>People were pairing up left and right, yet he still hadn't found a single tribute to partner with. It was starting to get to him. Wasn't he alliance-worthy? He was able-bodied, strong, and definitely not dumb, which was more than could be said about a lot of the others who already boasted allies. Then again, he definitely wasn't <em>the<em> strongest, or _the_ smartest. Most motivated, maybe, but that was hard to judge. Everyone here would fight for their life, to varying degrees of success, but they'd fight nonetheless.

He just had to find someone who was strong, but not quite as driven as he was. Allies or not, he still had to outlast them.

Of the remaining loners, only the guy from Eight seemed like he fit the bill. Strong, but not unmanageably so. Driven, but with a certain measure of weariness that made him seem rather burnt-out. Irritable, too.

He would do.

Samson took a seat at the rope station, not awkwardly far from the boy from Eight, but not inappropriately close, either. If Denim noticed, he didn't let on.

"Hi," Samson said, lacing his fingers together. "Interesting station, huh?" The boy didn't respond, so Samson continued. "Ropes are interesting. Start with weaker individual fibers, tie them together, and get something that's stronger than the sum of its parts. It's a nice metaphor, really. Reminds me of-"

"Why are you talking to me?"

Despite the standoffish tone, any communication was progress. Samson allowed himself a satisfied nod. "I just thought you looked like a good potential ally. Figured I'd try to get the ball rolling with a little small talk."

"I hate small talk," he said, tying the rope tighter to emphasize the word 'hate'. "And you don't know anything about me."

Samson raised his eyebrows. "Well, I know you don't have an ally."

"Maybe I joined someone in secret."

"Bullshit. You're alone, and you know it. But you don't have to be." Samson paused to gauge Denim's reaction. So far, so good. He seemed to have the other boy's reluctant, though undivided attention. "I think we should ally."

Denim set the rope down and lifted his gaze, suspicious eyes darting across Samson's face, searching for any sign of fraud. He found none, but didn't change his defensive posture. "Why me?"

With a shrug, Samson said, "Why _not_ you?"

"Alright," Denim said, almost smiling. "Why_ you_? What makes an alliance with you so attractive?"

"Well, it's nice to have someone who's got your back. Each of us has different skills, which we could use to help each other. And I won't stab you in the back."

Denim took a while to answer. When he did, his voice was level. Inscrutable. "Sounds reasonable. Don't get me wrong, though - I still don't trust you."

Raising his hands in submission, Samson said, "Totally understandable. I wouldn't trust a near-total stranger, either." He inclined his head. "But I think you'll come around."

Someone across the room cried out in pain as their sparring partner took a cheap shot. Even so, the two boys didn't break eye contact. If anything, their gazes intensified.

Denim returned his attention to the knot of rope on the counter. "We'll see about that."

* * *

><p><strong>Margery Kappel, District Seven<strong>

* * *

><p>She watched from the sidelines as Benjamin beat the stuffing out of a few combat dummies, doing more damage with a staff than she thought possible. It had been a good idea to accept his invitation to ally. He was certainly one of the stronger kids here, and judging by the direct, out-of-the-blue way he'd approached her, probably one of the most confident, too. Maybe not the best thing, but she could work with it.<p>

Benjamin's self-assurance crowded out the finer points of subtlety, but all things considered, Margery liked it. He knew what he wanted, and wouldn't waste anyone's time by beating around the bush.

In that way, he reminded her of Greyson.

She hung her head at the thought of her fiancé. He'd proposed only the month before, and now... now she was here. In the Hunger Games. Maybe she'd never see him again, and maybe he'd have to watch her die. She supposed that's what they got for tempting fate and making plans past the reaping. It wasn't fair, but then again, what was?

Anger flickered in her gut, but it sputtered out almost as quickly as it appeared. She and Greyson simply hadn't wanted the Games to dictate their personal lives. If they wanted to get engaged before their last reaping, they had every right to do so, and they had. She didn't regret their decision, even though it hurt to have such happiness snatched away, potentially forever, when it had been within her grasp.

No matter what, she had to get home. She had to be strong. For Grayson, for her family. For herself.

"You alright?" Benjamin said, breaking her from her thoughts. "I mean, other than being in the Hunger Games."

Margery forced herself to brighten. "I'm fine. Just thinking about home."

He crossed his arms and made a sound that was more of a scoff than a laugh. "Aren't we all?"

That was the problem. Margery knew that every person here, every tribute that she had to outlast, had homes and families and friends, just like her. What made her so special? Why did she deserve victory more than the rest of them?

_It's not about who deserves it_, she thought. _It's about who earns it._

And she had every intention of earning it. The details, however, were a bit fuzzier. She didn't quite know how she would get from point A to point Z, though she knew full well that it would involve a lot of pain, disappointment, and death. She wished it wouldn't. She willed it with every fiber of her being, but no amount of pleading with the universe would change anything. Whatever was in charge of their fates, it had allowed for the existence of the Hunger Games in the first place. Surely, it didn't care about the wishes of one insignificant girl.

Margery recoiled at the thought. Was she truly insignificant? Next-to-worthless?

To some cosmic entity, probably. But to herself? No. Definitely not.

Did that mean her self-preservation was worth the lives of the other tributes? Again, definitely not. Each one of them valued their existence just as much as she valued her own, and she valued their lives, too. Just as every good human being should. She knew that every tribute here had a universe of memories, thoughts, and emotions, and that every single one of them deserved to exist, to live.

That was the problem. She cared too much. She _empathized_ too much. It had never been a problem in the past, but right now, she wished she didn't, because she wanted to survive, but she also wanted to be able to live with herself afterward.

* * *

><p><strong>Three weeks. Yeah. I know it's a long time, and I'm sorry. Right now, classes come first. That being said, finals are next week, and then it's spring break!<strong>

**Now that we've seen everyone at least once, there's a poll on my profile asking for your 5 favorite tributes. Even if you don't have a tribute in Lockdown, I'd love to know your opinion!**

**Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think of the chapter!**


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